SUPERWHOLOCK: Eye of the Storm
by FosiliZed
Summary: The Winchesters travel to England to find a hunter who vanished. When they're forced into an uneasy alliance with the famous Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, and an alien with a tense relationship with Castiel, they discover something that can only lead to destruction. Despite their numbers, their new team might not be up to the task... [Warnings inside.]
1. The Girl With The Ring

**Disclaimer:** All characters belong to their respected owners, except the ones I've created for the purpose of the plot.

**A.N: **For Supernatural, this is a slight AU that takes place at the beginning of Season 8. It doesn't interfere that much with the plot of the seasons, but diverts from them. It's a like a lost episode. For Sherlock, this takes place after series 3. For Doctor Who, this takes place during series 7, BEFORE the Doctor met Modern-Clara, but AFTER he has met Victorian-Clara and figured out there is more than one of her.

**Warning: **There are graphic torture scenes later on in the story and extreme angst that may be uncomfortable to some. This fic contains het and hints of both fem-slash and slash. There is also an OC, but she is only used for plot purposes and isn't a main character.

* * *

**One**

The Girl With The Ring

Dean Winchester woke gasping for breath and covered in sweat. It was a very familiar sensation, but it still left him breathless and afraid. He took deep, slow breaths to calm himself, and locked his gaze onto something comforting: his younger brother, Sammy. Sam Winchester was sleeping in the bed opposite. Over the beating of his feverish heart, Dean tried to think: Where was he? What was he doing? Then he remembered. He was in Iowa.

He and his brother were drawn there by a chain of very bloody deaths, which had left nothing remaining of what could have possibly been called a person. To make matters more interesting, the latest victim would always be seen walking around the city, days after being killed. After a few days investigating, they discovered that it was a Ghoul roaming the area with a taste for fresh meat, and after taking the form of those it killed, as some kind of sick joke, it would visit it's 'own' funeral.

That's how they caught it.

The Ghoul was walking down to the funeral home, dressed in a tie and a black suit, when the Winchesters located it. It had put up a good fight, but together, the brothers managed to kill it by cutting it's head from it's body. Disposing of the body was a little harder, but they managed to remove it before the funeral began. Luckily, the Winchesters were not seen while they did any of this. This meant they could stay in a comfortable bed for a night longer without the police banging on their door. It was not something that happened often, nor was it something that they could allow to slow them down. There were too many monsters in the world, and not nearly enough hunters to deal with them, so stopping and staying was simply not an option. So the brothers agreed to be gone by the next morning.

It was _2:10 am. _The night was still young, and the only sounds were Sammy's quiet snores and the occasional car humming past the motel. As Dean lay awake, listening to Sam's breathing, he felt his heart steady to a nervous rhythm. The fact that he knew Sam was there was a comfort. It meant that he wasn't alone and, in the end, that was all he needed.

After a while, Dean closed his eyes and tried to sleep. He lay still for a short moment, watching the light show under his eyelids, and then, uncomfortable, he turned over onto his stomach. Then he turned his pillow over, rubbing his face into the cold softness and sighing. His body felt hot and sticky. His clothes clung to him like the tentacles of an octopus. At last, Dean hauled his himself out of with a sound somewhere between a sigh and a grunt, and he wandered sleepily to the wash room.

He stumbled from fatigue, his hand shooting out towards the wall to steady himself. He pressed his forehead against the door frame and sighed.

This didn't usually happen. But then again, Dean's nightmares weren't usually so vivid - so _realistic - _as the one he'd just experienced. Like all his nightmares, Dean remembered being in Hell. Everything was toneless, bland - just a single dark colour stretching out further than the eye could see. There were rusty chains so long that they stretched further than any eye could see. From the chains hung meat hooks; blunted so they'd hurt more when they stuck into you. Some of the hooks were empty, but most of them had souls dangling like rags from them. Every second of every day, torturers would tear into them as hungry animals, ripping and carving the flesh apart until there was nothing remaining, and Hell would be constantly filled with millions of screams.**  
**

Dean rubbed his eyes to expel the memories, both guilty and pained by them, but it didn't work. He found himself wishing that he was back in Purgatory, where everything was so pure and he felt clean - even with the dirt and filth on his skin and clothes.

In his dream, Alistair the demon came to him, handing him a blade with the promise that the pain would stop. Dean had clasped the blade firmly with a new resolve. Alistair pointed at the wailing soul of a woman, and then leaned across and whispered in his ear: tips for how to get the girl to _really scream._ Dean approached her, licking his lips like a wolf, and she begged him to stop. She begged, and begged, and _begged - _and that's when Dean sliced the lips clean off her face. He felt her hot blood oozing down his hands – then he turned off the hot water tap and dried his hands on the towel, shuddering.

_Pull it together, Dean,_ he told himself, meeting his own eyes in the mirror. His reflection stared back at him mockingly, but Dean held his own gaze. He was Dean Winchester. He helped saved the world once. He saved more people than he could count. He fought monsters for a living, and _Dean Winchester_ was never, ever afraid.

Dean sighed - like he _actually_ believed that - and buried his face into his towel. It was going to be a long night.

After a while, Dean pulled the towel from his face, and scowled at his reflection. He remembered something odd from his dream. A bright gold light had engulfed hell and everyone in it. It was as if Hell had become a still frame in a movie, and the film had burnt and was melting away in a bubble of gold and orange, leaving only him with his knife. Steadying his knife in his hand, Dean looked left and right. The light had engulfed everything as far as he could see, but he still felt a presence there with him. He turned around, expecting Alistair to be there, but instead he saw a young woman. She was clean, dressed in a white dress, and her skin was a sun-kissed brown. Her hair was blondish-brown and hung in curls over her shoulders and there was an orchid behind her ear. She was attractive, but it made Dean uncomfortable to think of her in such a way.

The woman had approached him, and Dean remembered feeling a painful throbbing as she did so. She slipped something into the pocket of his jeans and then vanished - which was when Dean woke in his bed.

Now, in the wash room, Dean slipped his hand into his pocket. He felt something small, hard, and cool; something that was not there when he went to sleep. Dean yanked his hand out of his pocket and found a ring laying in his open palm. It had a silver band, well-polished, with a milky white gem in it. There was something familiar about it, almost as if Dean had seen, or held, it once before. Dean held the ring between his fore finger and thumb and peered closer, turning the ring over in his fingers until –

"Holy crap!" Dean cried, jerking backwards as realisation hit him. The ring fell to the floor with a clatter and spun out of view. Dean flailed about in shock, bashing his shoulder against the shelf and knocking off all the shampoo bottles onto the floor.

_Uh, oh._ Dean bit his lip. _Please don't wake up. Please don't wake up. Please don't wake up!_

Heavy footsteps made their way towards him. _**Damn it.**_

Sam appeared in the doorway. His eyes were still closed and his long hair was tussled from sleep. He yawned loudly, rubbed his eyes, and blinked at his brother. Dean was suddenly engulfed with an image of five-year-old Sammy as he tucked him into bed. He would ruffle his hair and Sam would playfully shove him away before curling up to sleep. Then, Dean would sit by his bed, a gun in his hand, waiting for their dad to return. Despite everything the brothers had endured, Sam still managed to keep a hold of himself, and he's suffered more than must people could bare. But Sam was still Sam - selfless little Sammy Winchester. Dean often wondered how he did it, when he, himself, felt so broken. Sam didn't even look annoyed at being woken - _for crying out loud _- he just looked curious and a little concerned for his brother's welfare. "Everything okay?" Sam said quietly. **  
**

Dean nodded meekly, unable to do much else. He wasn't entirely sure how he would explain the mess - and the _ring_ at that! Also, to be honest, he felt too tired to even try. Something must have come off in Dean's response because suddenly Sam was wide awake, eyes large and staring at him with suspicion.

"What is it?" he demanded, "What's happened?"

"Nothing!" Dean said, too quickly.

Of course, Sam didn't look convinced _at all_.

Dean sighed, "Bad dream." He explained loosely, hoping it would be enough to deter his brother for the time being. He knew that Sam wouldn't give up so easily. It was admirable at times, but sometimes Dean wished he would leave him alone.

Sam gave him a sympathetic look, his lips forming a straight line. He nodded in understanding, and Dean silently thanked him. Before he left, Sam ran his eyes over the mess, raising an eye brow, "Just make sure you clean up." He gave the door frame a gentle tap, smiled, and turned away.

Dean nodded, "Right."

He waited until he was sure Sam had climbed back into bed, before he promptly dropped to the floor and began scrambling through the mess he'd made. He couldn't see the ring anywhere! _Shit. Shit. __**Shit! **_

Dean swam madly through the bottles, pushing them away with his arms, but the ring was nowhere to be found. He dragged his hands down his face in his frustration. He checked under the shower curtain, hoping it hadn't gone done the drain. He looked through the bottles again. This time he picked up each bottle in turn and placed it on the shelf, making sure the ring was not trapped between or beneath them. He continued searching until, at last, he spotted a small silver shining thing beside the bin and dived forward to grab it, almost knocking his head against the wall. He pulled the ring to his chest and exhaled with relief.

The ring belonged to Death, the horseman, who'd probably make sure he died slowly and painfully if he lost it. He had enough beef with Death already – they didn't exactly have the best past history, in more ways than one. Dean liked to think they could get along if – _wait a minute._

Dean frowned: _How on hell and earth did I get Death's ring?_

* * *

The next morning was quiet, but the air was sourly flavoured with questions Sam had for his brother, hanging over them like water vapour. He was certain Dean hadn't gone back to sleep after the incident in the wash room. Usually Sam wouldn't worry about that, since Dean barely slept to begin with, but after last night he was keeping a close eye on him, and found that Dean was acting strangely. His first clue was when he woke up at _7:00 am, _Dean was pacing up and down the motel room. Since then, Sam watched Dean like a keen detective. He only left Dean alone when he went to go get breakfast and food for the road. He tried to act casual as he would every morning.

When he returned, Dean was slouched at Sam's laptop, rubbing his bottom lip in thought, but he slammed it shut when he noticed that Sam was in the motel.

"Pie?" Dean asked instantly, a hopeful gleam in his eyes.

"I got Twinkies." Sam replied, and Dean looked disappointed. It only made Sam smirk. He went past Dean and towards the kitchen, watching his older brother through the corner of his eye. His smile dropped when he noticed Dean delete the internet history on his laptop. Sam knew two things for certain: 1. Dean only used his laptop for last minute research or porn, and, 2. Dean would never delete the history if it was porn and leave Sam to face the embarrassment. Dean was up to something, and he didn't want Sam to know what.

Sam turned away from Dean as he placed the shopping onto the kitchen counter. He began to unpack the fresh fruit and vegetables, rice and pasta – the edible food rather than the things his brother consumed.

"I found a job." Dean said as he ate his Twinkies.

Sam frowned, unsure, but he pretended to be innocently curious, "Really? Already? I mean, we just finished off that Ghoul yesterday – are you sure you want to start working straight away?"

"Yep." Dean said and jumped from where he was sat at the table. He strolled over to his bed, picking up his duffel bag, "So get packing. We're going to England."

Now _that_ threw Sam off completely. "Wait, _what?" _Surely, Dean was joking? Why would he want to take a job all the way in _England? _It wasn't like there wasn't enough work in the USA to occupy themselves with. It was a big country, and monsters of all kinds were popping up all over the place.

Dean's face seemed to close off from Sam's, and he turned so he was facing the complete opposite direction, and there was no way Sam could read his emotions. Usually, Sam read him like a book, and Dean did not want Sam to know what he was thinking. So, Dean continued to pack, and said to Sam," I found a job. There has been, like, twenty-million random, unrelated, disappearances around south England. So I'm thinking maybe Spirits…"

"Spirits follow patterns and rules." Sam pointed out. He saw Dean roll his eyes.

"Well maybe there is a pattern and I haven't spotted it yet!" he huffed. Sam felt a little torn for a moment, and came close to spitting back at him for being reckless, but then he realised that Dean was tense around the shoulders. It suddenly hit him that Dean was _upset_ and was using a job as a distraction. Sam was getting increasingly concerned by the minute because this meant that Dean wasn't thinking clearly, and in their line of work, this could cost them both and many others their lives. Sam bit his lip and tried to think what he could do.

When Sam hadn't said anything, Dean continued, "…So, anyway, I just thought it's something we should check out." He looked over his shoulder at him expectantly, "So pack, Sammy. We need to prepare for anything."

Sam was surprised at Dean's tone. For a moment, he sounded a lot like their dad.

As Dean went to go get his jacket, Sam stayed where he was and continued to watch him. Sam noticed that Dean tried to discreetly slip something small and silver into his pocket before he pulled his jacket on, and he found himself curious as to what it could possibly be. _Talk to him!_ Sam's subconsciousness ordered, but Sam's brain knew he wouldn't get a decent answer out of Dean while his brother was in this state. Dean was secretive, and Sam knew it was none of his business to pry.

But still, Sam found it difficult to keep his concerns to himself, especially when they were about his brother. The best solution would possibly be for him to remain quiet - but Sam found himself protesting at that thought. Whenever they'd kept something a secret from the other, it had always ended badly, and Sam didn't want to make that mistake again. With that in mind, perhaps it would be better to let Dean know of his concerns. As Sam thought about this, it seemed to become the better solution. Dean would learn that Sam was worried, and know that Sam was there to confide in. Sam hesitated just a moment longer but, at last, he spoke; slowly and carefully, with a voice laced with understanding and sympathy. "Dean, you only go on a non-stop working spree when you're upset about something."

Dean just scowled. His shoulders tensed up even more than they already had, as though he felt that he was about to be attacked. It was almost possible to say that he was. "What would I have to be upset about?" he snapped.

"I don't know." Sam replied honestly, because it was the truth, "But that just worries me more. Plus you're taking a job in England, which involves _flying. _You can't expect me not to be suspicious."

"Dude relax!" Dean cried, waving his hands in exasperation "It's not like that!"

Sam raised an eyebrow, prompting him to go on. **  
**

Dean opened his mouth, closed it, and then moved closer to his brother. He forced a fake reassuring smile that Sam could see straight through, and after a pause he said, "Garth called, all right? Apparently, he contacted a hunter in England to check this case out, and he hasn't heard from him since. So, I'm doing it for his benefit."

Sam's gaze glossed over his brother. He seemed to be telling the truth, or most of it, and although he wondered _when _exactly Garth could have called, the younger Winchester decided to drop his concerns for the moment. Hopefully, Dean would be ready to open up to him later on. In the meantime, Sam decided he would focus on the new case, and he asked, "What was the hunter's name?"

His brother looked pleased with himself, his ego allowing him to think that he'd deterred Sam on his own. He went to go pick up his bag and replied, "Jack."

Sam was quiet. He remembered hearing that name before, but he wasn't sure where.

Dean mistook Sam's silence for confusion, and nodded, "Yeah, I've never heard of him neither."

Sam went over to his bed, where his duffel bag was perched, and began packing. He put his clothes in first, folding each one carefully, while asking Dean, "Did Garth send you a picture, or anything to go on?"

"Come on – it's Garth!" Dean exclaimed, and Sam chuckled. Garth was a good hunter, really, but sometimes he missed the obvious, like - oh, I don't know - sending them a picture so they knew _who _ they were actually looking for. Dean continued, "All I know is that they hunted together, like, once and that he was a friend of Bobby's."

Sam stopped. Bobby's name had struck a chord in his memory, "Wait. Did you say Jack?"

Dean stopped as well, but only to blink at his brother, "Yeah?"

"Jack, as in, Jack the specialist?"

Dean just blinked again, a dumbfounded expression on his face.

Sam stared at him with disbelief, "Dude, he was in Dad's journal! They went hunting together!"

Dean stared at him for a moment, and then said, "I'm not even going to ask how you remembered that." He went to his bag and pulled out the tattered remains of their father's journal. Dean had tried to keep it in good condition, to honour their father's memory, but it was difficult when they went travelling all over. He leafed through the crispy brown pages which were scrawled in black ink and stopped abruptly. Sam looked at him curiously, when Dean began to read:

"– 'July 14th. Jack and I went hunting for the pack.'–"

Sam blinked. He waited for Dean to keep going, but when he didn't, he simply stared, not knowing whether he should be surprised or simply annoyed. "Is that it?!" he cried. **  
**

"Yep." Dean slammed the book close, and slipped it back into his bag. It wasn't the first time they had consulted the journal with disappointing results. Once upon a time, their survival depended on what was written on those pages, but nowadays it seemed as though their father was keen on keeping secrets from them. The record secret so far had been the discovery of their half-brother Adam - Sam just hoped that was the biggest secret their father had to hide...

After a pause, Sam just shrugged, "Oh well. We can call Garth when we get there, and ask more about this Jack. In the meantime, we should just prepare anything." He slipped a small knife into his shoe, the one they mostly used for cutting the heads off of vampires, while Dean migrated into the kitchen. Sam moved to pick up the Angel blade, then paused, remembering their Angel-friend, Castiel. He asked Dean, "Hey, are you gonna call Cas?"

Dean had been in the kitchen searching through the food Sam bought and packing the essentials: cake and sweets – Sam would have to go back later and pack the _real _food – because God knows that Dean never takes care of his health. He stopped and sighed when Sam asked about Cas. It wasn't that he didn't like Castiel - no, quite the opposite. It was just that he hated flying, and flying with angels was no different. In fact, it was _almost worse_. It felt like he was falling a thousand miles in a spilt second; his stomach seemed to bash around in his insides and it left him nauseated. The only upside that made it better than an aeroplane is that it only lasted a second.

So, Dean closed his eyes, and prayed, "Dear Castiel, our not-so heavenly angel. We pray in your good name – yadda, yadda, yadda – get your ass here and help us out. Amen."

They waited in silence for a response. It was so quiet that they could hear each other's breathing. Then it came – a gust of wind as a bird lands after flight, its feathers slicing through the air in clean cut gestures. Dean and Sam spun round towards the sound and there stood Castiel. He wore his usual tattered trench coat and the navy blue tie that was never done up right. His raven-black hair was sticking up: this was the only evidence of his flight.

"Hello, Dean." Castiel greeted. He looked at Sam and gave a polite nod, "Hello, Sam."

Dean grinned, his face brightening up instantly, "It's good to see you, Cas."

Castiel gave a small smile, too innocent for a mighty Angel. He asked, "You required my help?"

"Yeah." Sam said, "We need a lift to England, London."

That's when everything became tense. Castiel's eyes widened just a fraction. He looked _horrified_ to say the least, but it was more than that. His blue eyes were filled with a longing, but also hesitation - and behind that hesitation was regret and horror. For a being that was not meant to feel emotions, there were so many present on his face. The two brothers exchanged worried glances, and Sam asked, carefully, "Is that okay, Cas?"

Castiel didn't reply but nodded stiffly and looked up again, a smile masking his face. Sam wasn't too keen with the response: It was like everyone around him was acting strange. However, Castiel had agreed and the two brothers positioned themselves in front of the angel, with their bags on their backs. Castiel lifted his arms, and the brother's quickly bent their legs before the angel pressed two fingers to their foreheads. They felt themselves lift of the ground for a moment and faster than the eye could blink, the ground returned as they found themselves on an unfamiliar street in the pouring rain.

Dean swung dizzily, a green look on his face, before he steadied himself and scowled at the rain. "Oh jeez." Dean muttered, glancing up at the dark clouded sky and then back at his brother, yanking his jacket over his head, "Fucking England, man."

Sam nodded in agreement, pulling his own jacket tighter around him as the shock of the sudden 10 degree temperature drop reached his skin, and he shuddered. "There's a flat down there." He said, nodding his head to a row of buildings on the opposite side of the road, "If you get us a room, I can go to Scotland Yard and ask for some records."

Dean nodded in agreement, and then turned to where Castiel was stood, "Hey, Cas, thanks for the…" The angel had disappeared, like he had never been there in the first place. Dean sighed, glancing round to see if the angel was nearby, but he was gone. Sam wasn't too surprised; Castiel didn't look very comfortable with the idea of coming to England. But there was no time to ponder about that. Sam turned to his brother, "I'll meet you in New Scotland Yard."

Dean nodded once, and the two brothers spilt up in opposite directions.

Sam knew his way around London because of a field trip he once went on with one of his schools. He remembered it was something to do with tourist attractions, in his Geography class, and they had come mainly to analyse why London was popular. Sam didn't have many friends, no one who wanted to work or even be around him, the 'Freak', so he had sneaked away from the class when no one was looking. He went around the stalls first, but ended up getting lost. He panicked for a moment, but when he saw the London Eye, stalling tall as his beacon of hope, he got an idea. Sam went on the London Eye, where he could see everything, and surely he would have been able to find his way back. He remembered being dazzled by the view and talking to a man who was much older than him but looked equally as dazzled. They stayed on the Eye long after it went dark, talking about the amazing universe and the stars. It was only when the police came looking for him did he leave. He's gotten in deep trouble for it, but he thought it was worth it.

Now, Sam made sure he wouldn't get lost.

He took a quick detour to some public toilets and got changed into his suit. It was not the most dignified thing to do, but the Winchesters had done worse. Much worse. He made sure he looked professional before he stepped out onto the streets, pretending that he'd _not _just got changed in the toilets despite the looks he was getting. When Sam arrived at New Scotland Yard, he quickly got out one of his fake for the Secret Service. Usually, he and his brother picked to pose as the FBI for a case such as this, but Sam knew that the FBI had nothing to do with England. He checked the name on the badge, and then slipped it into his inside pocket of his blazer.

As soon as Sam entered the building, the woman at the front desk glanced up. Her hair was red and tied into a long ponytail, and her eyes were round and blue and peered at him through small glasses. Sam got his badge out ready.

"Hi." He said, smiling, "I'm Sargent Worden. I was wondering if I could see some missing person reports."

"Can I see some I.D?" asked the woman. Sam had heard that line so many times, he could have mouthed it along with her. He pulled his badge out his pocket and showed it to her. The woman took the badge and peered closer. Her eyebrows raised, and she seemed a little curious, but she gave him back his badge none the less. "How may I help you?"

Unknown to Sam, another man had entered the building. He was tall and slender, wearing a dark suit, much like Sam's own. He had short grey hair which was damp and carried dew drops from the rain. He held a coffee in his left hand, and his coat was slung over his right arm. He was walking towards the lift, but stopped when he saw Sam out of the corner of his eye.

Sam continued, "I'm here about the disappearances across London."

"I was on that case." The man said, suddenly. Sam turned around, surprised, as the other approached. As a first impression, Sam found himself liking the man. He had a smile of made of a genuine kindness, a compassion for others that could not be faked, but his deep brown eyes had a dark undertone, barely hidden by a coating of social teaching. "Sorry." the man continued, passing his cup to his right hand and holding out his left, "Inspector Lestrade. I hate to be rude, but you said you were looking into the disappearances?"

"Hello, Inspector." Sam greeted, politely shaking the man's hand before showing his badge, "Secret Service. And, yes I did." Sam took a moment to pull out a notebook from his top pocket and a pen, hoping to record anything that could be important for figuring out what was going on behind this case. "You were saying you worked on this case?"

Lestrade nodded, "Yeah. A few months ago, actually."

"What happened?"

"Nothing." He admitted with a shrug, and Sam glanced up from his notebook in surprise, "It's still open, the case, but we've got no leads. It's like these people just vanish…into thin air."

Sam thought about it for a moment. It definitely sounded like a case he and his brother would usually take and, as usual, the police had no idea what they were up against. Sam said, "It is mysterious. I was wondering if you could show me the missing person reports."

"Of course. This way."

As Lestrade lead him down the narrow corridor, Sam sent a quick text to Dean and hoped his brother would have found a place for them to stay by now, and hadn't gone to look for a bar, or something.

_**Dean: **__Secret Service. Wear a suit._

He glanced up from his phone when he heard clacking footsteps of high heels on the hard floor, and quickly slipped his phone into his pocket again. The woman coming down the opposite end of the corridor was thin and quite tall, although she was tiny compared to Sam, and had dark skin and dark fuzzy hair. By her uniform, Sam guessed she was a Sargent.

Lestrade smiled courteously when he saw her, "Morning, Donovan."

Sargent Donovan stopped, "Freak called." She informed him, unable to keep the snap out of her voice. Donovan looked more than irritated, not just at the fact that this 'Freak' called, but she also looked irritated with Lestrade, but a different kind of irritated - the type that Sam feels when he knows Dean is going to do something stupid. Donovan glanced briefly at Sam, whose eyebrows were raised high, and her eyes narrowed before she looked back at Lestrade.

Suddenly, Lestrade looked old, like he'd been working too hard. Sam was reminded of mothers who always looked tired because of the stress their baby caused. "You're joking."

"Nope." Donovan said, frowning, "This case has been open been open for ages, and now he's taken an interest? It's suspicious, and you know it."

The inspector glanced at Sam and back again, just like Donovan had done – suddenly Sam felt as though there was a lot more going on in Scotland Yard than meets the eye. "Tell him I'll talk to him later." He told Donovan, "I'm busy at the moment."

Donovan looked sceptical, almost like she wanted to protest, but she gave a sharp nod and continued down the corridor.

"What was that all about?" Sam asked, curiosity getting the better of him.

"We have an expert who comes in often, but he's, well…" Lestrade trailed off, thinking of the right word to describe his 'expert'.

"A nuisance?" Sam supplied helpfully.

Lestrade smirked, "Oh, you have no idea. Anyway, the archives are this way."

They continued their walk through the building until they came to the archives. The whole room was a labyrinth of shelves and filing cabinets, filled which millions of police records collected over the years, each one numbered differently. Lestrade lead the way, counting the numbers under his breath as they went, and Sam suspected he'd probably get lost if he was alone. Eventually, they came to a shelf labelled 32-29-10 and Lestrade pulled out a file titled 'Wester Drumlins' and handed it over to Sam.

"This has all records of reported disappearances." He explained as Sam looked through the file, "It also has the cars and objects we found that belonged to the people who went missing. They're in a warehouse over in Newport, in case you're interested."

Sam looked up at him and smiled, "Thank you."

He noticed that Lestrade was looking behind him instead of at him and Sam glanced round and saw Dean, with an officer beside him, approaching them. He nodded to the officer, thanking her for directions, and joined Sam and Lestrade, "The woman at the desk said I could come straight through." Dean gave an innocent smile, and lifted up his badge for the Inspector to see, "David Nelson. I'm his partner."

Sam nodded to confirm this, and showed Dean the file. He looked through the file at the images of woman, children, men and the dates and locations they were last seen. Dean asked, "Any connection between the victims?"

"None whatsoever." Lestrade said, a thin smile on his lips, although there was no humour there.

Suddenly, Lestrade's phone beeped. He gave them an apologetic look and glanced at his phone."Bollocks." he hissed under his breath. Again, he gave the brother apologetic looks and said, "I have to go. When you've finished, I recommend that you talk to our expert – try not to punch him." He added sincerely, and Sam and Dean exchanged surprised glances before watching Lestrade leave.

Dean smiled, "I kinda like him."

Sam huffed in amusement.

"So," Dean looked back at his brother, "I got us that flat. The landlady has pie."

Rolling his eyes, Sam took the file off Dean, "We're on a case. Try to stay focused. Did you find out what happened to Cas?"

"No." Dean said with an annoyed sigh, "He just vanished – again. I don't know why I bother to be honest."

Sam was no longer listening. He was frowning at the pages he was looking at. On one, there was a picture of a woman called Katherine Costello Nightingale, and on the next, a young boy called March Denton. Lestrade was right when he said that there appeared to be no connection – these two people weren't related, didn't live here each other, and Sam doubted that they'd even _met_, but there _was_ something he had spotted.

According to the reports, Katherine disappeared on the 9th June 2007, whereas March went missing on the 5th February 2008. Sam looked back through the previous pages and noticed that before this point, the disappearances happened almost every three weeks to a month. Why the sudden gap? Sam looked at where they disappeared and suddenly his heart skipped a beat.

"Hey, I think I have a lead." Sam said, and Dean, who had been ranting about Cas the whole time, stopped short and blinked at him. Sam laid out the folder on the shelf in front of him and pulled out this phone, bringing up a map of the UK. "Check this out. I'm not sure what were after, but it turns out that the disappearances started over in Newport, around this old house called Wester Drumlins." Sam showed Dean the location on his phone. It was a good 100 miles from London, at least. Sam then gestured to the people in the file. "Katherine went missing in this house, and so did March."

Dean furrowed his brow, "So what then? A vengeful spirit has latched to the house, and whoever goes inside vanishes?"

"I thought that too. But look at this." Sam pointed to the dates on the files, "There is a massive gap here, whereas the other disappearances happened within weeks."

"So?" Dean said, raising an eyebrow, "Maybe people got spooked and stayed away. It's what any rational person would have done."

Sam turned over the page where there was an older man and pointed to the location the man was last seen at.

"– 'The Celtic Manor Resort.' -" Dean read, frowning. He began to suspect what Sam was getting at, but didn't voice his thoughts in case they were wrong.

Sam showed him the map on his phone, pointing out the resort and the Wester Drumlins house, "That's about 5 miles away from the house, see?"

Dean chewed his lip thoughtfully, "So whatever it is, it's migrating."

"Exactly!" Sam declared. He suddenly felt like a detective in the books he used to read as a young boy. "Spirits are supposed to follow patterns, and can't leave the place they're attached to. So, why would a spirit stop snatching people for _eight months_ and then randomly start up again outside the place it's supposedly attached to?"

"When did the vanishing stop vanishing?" Dean asked, seriously.

Sam ignored his brother's choice of wording. After all, it wasn't the dumbest thing Dean had ever said. "2007, I guess." He turned the page back to Katherine Costello Nightingale, "With her."

"Why?" Dean muttered, "What happened in 2007?"

"Nothing that made world news." Sam replied. He gestured to the page again. Beneath the personal details, and case notes, there was the name of the person who reported the disappearance, "Some woman reported something odd about the house, and a few days later the disappearances stopped – but only for eight months. After that, all the disappearances triangulate _away_ from the house."

"But everything started there." Dean muttered, looking at his brother, "I guess we should too."

Sam nodded. He slipped the files into his bag and walked out with his brother. Dean stopped him. "Sam?" He looked at him with a cringe, "Keep control of your inner nerd, please. That was humiliating."

"It's not my fault you're an idiot." Sam retorted, with a smirk. "You would be lost without me! Admit it!"

As they approached the exit, they noticed that everything was quiet. All the shouting there had been before had stopped, but the brothers could hear muffled voices coming from the entrance room. When they walked in, they saw Lestrade talking to a dark haired man in a long dark coat. He was slightly taller than Lestrade, but smaller than Dean, and was pale with sharp cheekbones and a pointed face. Next to him stood a shorter man with blondish-brown hair cropped short like in the military. Although he wasn't _that_ short, he was the smallest person in the room. Meanwhile, Donovan was leaning against the wall beside Dean and Sam, and shaking her head.

"You can't do that!" Lestrade scolded. He sounded like a teacher trying to explain what was right and wrong to a three-year-old.

"Why not?" the taller man demanded, honestly confused. _Yeah_, Sam thought, _definitely a three-year-old._

Donovan scoffed from where she was stood, "You harpooned a pig on a bus! Again!"

"I was _bored._" the taller man said, as if it justified everything. Lestrade folded his arms and scowled at him. The taller man looked to the shortest man in the room for help, "John."

John held up his hands took a step back, "I am _not _defending you!"

The taller man looked betrayed and turned away from John, looking at Sam and Dean. He stared hard at them.

Lestrade quickly said, "Secret Service. So keep your mouth shut." He smiled over at Sam and Dean like he was never angry, "Did you find what you were looking for?"

Sam nodded, "Yes, thank you. We'll be on our way now."

"Show me your badges." The tall, dark man said, suddenly, holding his hand out as though he was expecting sweets. Sam and Dean looked at one another again, and complied, watching cautiously as the tall man looked over their badges. "Fascinating." He whispered, looking up at them, "You're fakes."

"_WHAT?!" _Everyone in the room, except the tall man, screamed at once in one outrageous noise. Sam and Dean stared at him, unsure of what to do. John quickly moved to the doorway, blocking their escape. Donovan was now stood straight, looking at Lestrade for orders. Lestrade was looking between the tall man and the agents he knew to be fake, looking both betrayed and confused.

"Your suits." The tall man said as if it was oblivious. He continued at an alarming speed before the brother's had time to question what was happening, "They are cheap and frayed along the elbow line, and patches have been stitched – rather badly and repeatedly – with dental floss. This means you have a very active job, but not one with the Secret Service or they'd provide new suits with better stitching. That, as well as the obvious fact that these badges –" he flopped the two badges around in his hands like rag dolls, "– are fake."

Sam stared at him, his eyes wide with both fear and admiration.

Dean just scowled and, feeling threatened by the man, he demanded, "Who are you?"

"Sherlock Holmes." The tall, dark man answered, swiftly, proudly, as though he was expecting them to ask for autographs, or grovel at his feet.

Dean raised an eyebrow and looked at him sceptically. Sam held back a snigger. "Sherlock Holmes?" the two of them said at the same time, both as disbelieving as the other. Surely this man was joking? No one was called _Sherlock Holmes._

Sherlock's greenish-brown eyes began to dart inhumanly fast over Dean and Sam's bodies, drinking all the details in from the bags under Sam's eyes to the way Dean had tied his tie. He looked back at Lestrade, "Honestly, Grady, it's obvious! Even _you_ should have seen it."

"It's Greg!" Lestrade corrected with a sigh. He paused, looking suspiciously at Sam and Dean, and then he turned back to Sherlock and asked quietly, "What else can you see, Sherlock?"

"You." Sherlock first focused on Sam, "There's a large cut on your arm – sewn up so it was obliviously not self-harm. Once again, it's sewn up with dental floss so you don't have many luxuries, which implies that you're unemployed. Going by your accented, you travel often which is also proved by the bags under your eyes, probably from driving all night. There's three knifes and a gun hidden under your jacket, which means your line of work is very dangerous – that's probably were you got the scars from: Attackers; animals, perhaps."

He then gestured to Dean, "You. You're the eldest. When I saw through your disguise you took a protective stance, slightly in front of the other. You feel some sort of responsibility towards him which suggests a closer relationship than just 'partners'. Responsibility implies an elder age."

Dean's hand had clenched into a fist when Sherlock began to scrutinise him, and was tightening more and more as he spoke that his knuckles were turning pale.

"But it's _more_ than just responsibility." Sherlock was saying, squinting at him, "You stepped in to protect him the exact _second_ something seemed wrong – I doubt you noticed it at all, so it's something you've been taught to do from an early age and has become natural instinct, probably from an older member of your family. You're the eldest, so it was not a older brother. Maybe an uncle, or family friend, but your dependence on each other suggests that you have barely any family connections, or friends. Therefore, it must have been a parent. It could have been your mother, but judging by the way you tensed when I mentioned her, you either didn't know her or she left you at a young age, so it's your father. Also your co-dependency implies you had a dysfunctional family, as this is a common trait amongst people with relationships such as yours, which implies that either you hate your father or he's dead. Again, you've tensed up, and you're looking increasingly violent. But that's besides the point." Sherlock leaned closer to Dean, his eyes gleaming with excitement, "How long has your father been dead?"

That's when Dean punched him.

* * *

**Chapter Notes: **An interesting fact here; the day Katherine went missing, 9th June 2007, is the date the original Doctor Who episode 'Blink' aired in the UK (or at least it is according to Google) The distance between Wester Drumlins and the Celtic Manor Resort is 5 miles if you go the shortest way, and all information I got about the locations was from Google Maps. I apologize if any of it is inaccurate. I realised that 'Blink' was wrong when Katherine said that she was in the middle of London - she was in fact in Newport so factored this in this chapter. Heh, nerd, just like Sam. :D Also, I researched about co-dependant relationships for part of Sherlock's deduction. It was like reading a profile about Sam and Dean. It's strange because before I found this I thought 'hey these two have a great relationship' but according to this co-dependency is a generally a negative thing. It really gave me some interesting insight into Sam and Dean's relationship.


	2. A Case of National Importance

**Disclaimer:** Characters aren't mine. But you already knew that.

* * *

**Two**

A Case Of National Importance

It was early afternoon when John Watson went to visit his old friend Sherlock Holmes in his flat in Baker Street. Even though he had long since moved out, John still had the key to the flat for sentimental value. However he rarely had to use it since Sherlock always kept the door unlocked for him. John had told him several times to beware of thieves but Sherlock took no notice. As he walked in, he hung his coat on it's usual hook and looked round the dusty flat, drinking it in. It was always dark because Sherlock kept the curtains closed, and everything inside was neither dark green or brown. The brown furniture was lit up gold by the fire place, like a mysterious hoard of gold at the heart of the flat. _A heart of gold, _John thought, and yes, that seemed appropriate. He'd have to remember that for his blog later on.

At last, he spotted Sherlock sat in his usual chair, facing away from the windows - _"Light is distracting, John!" - _ his hands pressed together, tucked under his chin and his eyes were closed. John tried to be quiet: his friend was thinking, and hated to be disturbed. John crept into the kitchen, each step taken with caution like a mouse trying to avoid a trap, but he accidentally stepped on a creaky floorboard. As the floor moaned and sighed under his boot, Sherlock's eyes fluttered open and John was caught.

"Hey." He said, awkwardly.

Sherlock glanced over at him, his eyes flickering over John as he began to automatically analyse him. There was a little smudge of grease on his bottom lip – _chips – _and he was frowning a little, with bags under his eyes – _tired, annoyed, frustrated – _and then there was his shirt. It was slightly damp along the collar line and chest, but dry on the sleeves where he'd been wearing a coat – _was it raining?_ Sherlock then realised that John had been out, but not with Mary or he would have brought an umbrella to keep them both dry while they stayed a close proximity to each other. _(Gone out + frustrated + chips.) _That could only mean…

"You've been with Mycroft." Sherlock accused, his greenish eyes narrowing at John.

"Yeah." John said, puzzled. "It's Friday."

Sherlock blinked, "Is it? Oh. I could have sworn it was Monday when I sat down – oh well." John smiled fondly as Sherlock got up and wandered over to the wall where photographs of his 'markers', as he put it, and maps of London were pinned up. Though his eyes followed the pattern only visible to him, Sherlock continued talking with John, "You've had chips with him again. I thought that would stop once I came back."

"Force of habit." John said with a shrug. He moved from where he was stood in the kitchen and came into the main space of the flat, taking his usual seat opposite Sherlock's. He watched his friend look over the wall and imagined his brain working like gears on a clock; perfection, everything in working order. John had called Sherlock a machine previously, referring to his lack of human heart and his understanding of it, but it was true in the fact that Sherlock's mind worked like a machine; fast, calculated, and professionally ordered. In reality, John never had much luck with machines. He's once yelled at a Self-Check-Out while shopping. _Stupid, inferior, thing! _In fact, it was safe to say that Sherlock was the only machine John thought he understood.

"He told you something, didn't he?" Sherlock asked, though it was hardly a question, more like another one of Sherlock's futile attempts at 'chatting.'

When John said nothing, Sherlock turned from the wall and narrowed his eyes at him. One look at John's expression told the detective all he needed to know. "No. I won't do it." He said firmly and turned back to wall, "Moriarty is alive. I need to know how, why, and what his endgame is."

John sighed, "Sherlock. Just relax, will you?"

But Sherlock was not listening, having blocked John out. He was alone with nothing but his mind and a series of questions to which he had no answers. "How was he able to fake his death? How did I miss it? How did he get his face on all the screens across the country? _OH GOD!" _Sherlock pressed his hands into his eyes and groaned, "I _hate_ not knowing!"

"Sherlock." John tried again. He reached out and tapped Sherlock gently on the arm, and the taller man tensed, having not noticed John's migration across the room towards him. "You're driving yourself nuts. Moriarty isn't doing anything right now, so why don't you find another case?"

Sherlock peered at John for a moment before looking back at the wall. He was quiet for a minute or so, contemplating what John had said, turning it over in his mind, until at last he said, "No. It's tedious, pointless, and _probably_ oblivious." He stubbornly fixed his eyes on the wall and refused to look at anything else.

John just raised his eyebrows at his friend, "Probably?" He echoed. Since meeting Sherlock, over four years ago, he'd picked up a few deduction skills of his own, often under the guidance of his friend who inadvertently mocked him by saying things like "_you missed everything _important_"_ and '_that's good, but it hasn't got anything to do with this._' However he knew a few tricks from before he met Sherlock - as much as Sherlock liked to believe that John simply hadn't lived since before they met, and he just sort of 'happened' - during his time in the war, and one of them was to pick up on what people said and the particular tone and expression they had while speaking. It's because of this that John could often read a little more into Sherlock than others could, or even would. "Meaning you don't know because you won't even think about it." John continued, folding his arms, "Why? Because _Mycroft_ suggested it."

"Excellent deduction, John, but you missed out the oblivious detail."

_Here it comes, _John thought. He pressed his lips into a tight line, clearing the back of his throat, and waited for Sherlock to continue.

"I have thought about the case." Sherlock admitted, pressing the tips of his fingers together and tucking them under his chin in his usual 'thinking' position. He reminded John of some otters he'd seen in the zoo, but decided not to mention this, and actually pay attention to what Sherlock was saying, "There have been several hundred disappearances over the south of England – all victims seemingly unconnected except by the way they went missing. All of them when out either in a group or on their own, but the second they disappeared they were isolated."

"How did you work that out?" John asked, but then a thought occurred to him, "No, don't tell me…Was it your Homeless Network?"

"They keep a watchful eye out." Sherlock avowed, with a thin smile, "Also, of course, they'd have to be isolated for the kidnapper to take them – but why would a kidnapper take so many victims? There's probably more than one of them. An organisation, but why so many victims, and why those ones?"

John blinked at him, and then asked sarcastically, "So you're not on the case, then?"

"Nope." Sherlock said, popping the 'p'. He was serious. "I was just passing the time." He continued his scowl at the wall, as if it was insulting - which it probably was to Sherlock - before he suddenly cried, "Why hasn't Moriarty done anything?! He announces his return and then – nothing!"

"You're bored." John concluded, after a long pause.

Sherlock sighed, "Yes…" He pulled his hands through his curly hair, tugging the curls in front of his eyes. He murmured, "So very bored."

"Why don't you just take the case?" John asked with an impatient huff, "Mycroft said it was of national importance."

"He _always _says it's of national importance." Sherlock bemoaned. He put on a whiny voice to represent Mycroft, "Sherlock, Sherlock, _please_ take mummy and daddy out on Saturday instead of me. It's of _national importance_." Sherlock cringed, returning to his normal voice, "It's ludicrous!"

John just smiled, shaking his head fondly and chuckling. As he shook his head, he noticed something thin and gleaming in the corner of his eye. He turned and saw Sherlock's harpoon – he never bothered to ask why he had one – standing up against the bookshelf. Its silver metal was shining in the orange light of the fireplace, but it was coated in a layer of bright red, were the light of the flames created an orange dance on its red liquid surface. John frowned at it, and was disturbed when he realised it was covered in blood. "Oh God, Sherlock, what have done, _now?_"

"You know, I'll think we should go to Scotland Yard, after all." Sherlock said. He abruptly turned from the wall and bounded past John to grab his long black coat. He slipped it on, turning up the collars, and then grabbed his purple scarf and looped it round his neck. "Come on, John."

John was put off for a moment, then he shook himself and glared at Sherlock. "Sherlock!" John cried, but his friend was already half-way down the stairs. John hurried after him, grabbing his coat and blundering down the stairs as he tried to catch up. He managed to reach Sherlock as the man waved down a taxi, and he demanded, "Why does your harpoon have blood on it?"

"I was bored." Sherlock said defensively.

John stared at him, "Oh. Dear. _God_."

When they arrived at New Scotland Yard ten minutes later, Sargent Donovan was already waiting for them, since Sherlock had called ahead while in the taxi. Even though she was curious about why Sherlock had suddenly taken an interest in the Wester Drumlins case, she was more concerned about the reports of a mad man harpooning an escaped pig on the 200 bus this morning. Talking soon turned into yelling, and it took a joint effort from John and Lestrade to settle everything down. Lestrade then proceeded to interrogate Sherlock. Of course, Sherlock had insisted it was for a case. Apparently a farmer had asked him to do it for 'the good of the nation', although John suspected the farmer had actually said 'it's good for the _bacon_'.

Mycroft would not be happy. After all Sherlock was a celebrity around London and had an international reputation – even if he was only known as 'The Hat Detective' to most people – and he couldn't afford harpooning pigs on buses. John inwardly groaned when he realised that this meant he'd be getting another visit from Mycroft, cautioning him to keep an eye on his brother.

_No, Mycroft, _John thought, practising his response in his head for when Mycroft kidnapped him next, _You will not pay me to spy on Sherlock, even though he says I should so we can 'spilt the fee.'_

Actually, on second thought, that was probably not the best thing to say.

Do you know what the funny thing was? John actually thought _this_ would be the strangest part of his day, but that all changed when those two Americans walked into the room...

* * *

If looks could kill, the glare Dean was giving the wall would definitely have destroyed it. Dean was, in a word, **_livid. _**

It wasn't just because Sherlock Holmes had blown their cover, and then proceeded to intrude and wipe his dirty boots all over their lives - _who does he think he is?_ - which was the reason that provoked Dean to throw that first punch. No, it was after he'd thrown the first punch, and he'd gotten punched back in return. Hard. Now, Dean wasn't a cry baby. Not in the least. He understood that he probably deserved a little punch. But now he had the most ugly purple bruise on his cheek, and there was a hot burning pain in front of his ear. Dean spat out a little blood and groaned.

"_Don't worry." John had said, tense and angry around Dean, as he and Sam were forced into the small room by Donovan and Lestrade, "It's only fractured. Trust me, I'm a doctor."_

Dean tenderly poked his jawline, wincing as he did so. He tried to sigh but that hurt too. In fact, opening or closing his mouth was difficult. Dean would have thought it was broken, but he'd seen broken jaws on movies: they hung down like lifeless clothes on a line, and could swing right behind the ear; but that didn't mean that Dean was grateful for anything - he still got punched.

Sam was sat quietly beside his brother, since they were both cuffed to the table. He hadn't said anything for the last twenty minutes they'd been trapped there. He'd just sat, staring across at the wall, with his brooding, pensive look. He wondered what Inspector Lestrade and Sargent Donovan were doing, if they were watching them through the camera in the top right corner of the room, or even if they were planning to transfer them elsewhere. He wondered how he and his brother would get out of this predicament At this thought, he glanced up and noticed Dean poking his jaw and he said quietly, "Try not to move it."

"Shut up." Dean tried to say, but it was painful. He groaned loudly, and swore venomously, "I am _so_ getting him back for this."

Sam's look of sympathy turned disapproving, "Dean!"he scolded, glaring at his brother for a moment, but Dean showed no reaction. Sam turned away, mumbling, "You shouldn't have hit him."

"Hey, I didn't know his midget was standby!" Dean argued, wincing again because of his jaw.

"I'd probably do the same if someone hit you." Sam admitted with a careless shrug, and Dean just stared at him, unsure whether to be insulted that Sam wasn't taking his side, or pleased with the fact that his younger brother was protective of him. In the end, he settled on being pleased, but it didn't do much to lift his mood.

_Sam knew Dean was going to punch Sherlock long before he did it, but this still didn't give him enough time to stop his brother's lightning reflexes. Dean punched Sherlock straight on the nose, and that was it: Everyone exploded into action like something from Chuck Norris movie. Sam jerked backwards, out of the way of John who'd shot forwards in a whirl of rage and horror, and found himself restrained by Donovan. John had moved so quickly from the door to Dean that he managed to punch Dean in the jaw as Lestrade restrained the Winchester and cuffed him. Sherlock just rubbed his nose, looking slightly peeved, but otherwise he didn't appear to be at all fazed by what just happened. He just narrowed his eyes, straightened his collar, and said, "Touchy."_

Sam gave a long heavy sigh and asked, "So, how do we get out of here?"

Dean huffed through his nose. "I dunno…convince them to let us go?"

Sam grinned enthusiastically at the idea, "Oh that's great, Dean!" the façade dropped, giving Dean an unimpressed look, "_How, _genius_?"_

Dean tried to wave his hands in a defensive fashion, but all he could do was yank the chain of the hand cuffs.

The door to the room suddenly swung open and Inspector Lestrade came in, holding the 'Wester Drumlins' file in his hand. He put the file down in front of them and braced his arms against the table, glaring down at both of them. "So…" Lestrade said as a long-drawn out word, "Who exactly are you? And _don't lie!"_

This wasn't the first time Dean and Sam had been locked in a small room together, face by an integrator, and it certainly wouldn't be the last. Mostly, they were locked up because the FBI thought they were mass-murders – but come on, it wasn't their fault a couple of shape shifters took their form and went on a murdering spree – and before that, they'd been hunted down for credit card scams. Each time, they had escaped by sheer luck, or 'cunning' according to Dean, and Dean was determined that they'd get out this time, most likely by lying. However, Sam was not so sure. He'd seen the look Lestrade gave them when Sherlock revealed they were fake - betrayal - something he'd seen on Dean's face before. He felt ashamed, and realised that it was because he quite liked Lestrade. He was unlike other policeman they'd met; not just your standard 'good' cop, but there was a darkness inside him. Sam found he could relate to Greg Lestrade, and though they'd only known each other for a few minutes, he'd bonded with him.

Now, the fact that he lied to him and was meant to _keep on_ lying, Sam found he simply couldn't do it. Sam could only lie for a certain length of time before it weighed down on him like a cannon ball chained to his ankles. He wasn't like his brother in that respect, who could lie to everyone, even himself, because it was the _truth_ that weighed Dean down, not the lies.**  
**

So, Sam did what he eventually did with everyone. He told the truth: "I'm Sam. This is my brother, Dean."

If Dean was betrayed, he didn't show it and he just nodded to Sam to say he was fine with telling the truth this one time. Of course they could never tell the whole truth – who would believe them? So when Lestrade asked about their occupation, Sam said simply; "We're hunters."

Lestrade raised an eye brow, "Hunters?" he questioned, sceptical. "And what do 'hunters', if that's what you really are, have to do with the Wester Drumlins case?"

Sam and Dean looked at each other. Dean turned to Lestrade, meeting his gaze with a hard steady one of his own that held no lies, and said, "A hunting buddy of ours went missing."

Lestrade's eyes bore down into Dean's for a long, long moment, and then they softened, before he turned his head away. When he spoke, he voice was quieter and less harsh than before, "So, you decided to take the law into your own hands?"

Suddenly, Lestrade was lost in the past, reminiscing of a time when he sat where the brothers were now sitting as a rebellious, determined young man. Although his case was different to these boys, he couldn't help but relate to how they were feeling. It was frustrating to sit and wait while nothing seemed to be getting done, and sometimes people wanted to do illegal things to make progress. He sighed, mumbling,"Jesus Christ."

That was it. He'd made his decision. Sherlock would sham him for 'letting sentiment distract him', and Donovan would be peeved that she was doing this again. But Sherlock was no trouble, and Donovan was loyal to Lestrade. With this in mind, Lestrade turned to the camera and made an odd hand gesture: his index finger laid over his middle finger and his little finger reached over his palm to his thumb.

Sam and Dean looked at each other in confusion. Lestrade turned back to them and, abruptly, he slammed the file close, making the two boys jump a little and spin back to him, "Okay, boys, I'm going to make you a deal."

Dean blinked, leaning his head forward, thinking he'd misheard, "What?"

"I recognize a bad guy when I see one." Lestrade explained, "You two are not bad people. So, I'll make you a deal, and God knows I could lose my job for this, so you two better be worth it."

"Why?" Sam asked.

"You're missing a friend, and decided to actually want to do something about it. I can relate." Lestrade paused. He looked sad for a moment, but then he shook himself and said, "Not to mention, I've never done things by the book, myself, with Sherlock and all. So, how about this: I let you go with a warning – let's pretend you gratified a bus stop – and you go on your merry way and never come back."

Sam blinked at him, "Really?"

"Really, really." Lestrade said, smiling, "But do me a favour; I should be arresting you for fraud _and_ for attempted theft _and _for assault." Dean looked sheepish at this, "So if you mention this to _anyone,_ both of you are getting thrown in prison."

Sam pointed up at the camera, "But what about…?"

"I told you: Sherlock and John aren't exactly in the rule book." Lestrade said, "And Donovan is wiping the security cameras as we speak. Just don't get arrested again. This is a one-time only offer."

"We'll take it." Dean and Sam said at once. They looked over at one another, partly out of relief, partly disbelief and partly of out of awe.

Lestrade unlocked the cuffs and escorted them out. As the left, they noticed that Sherlock and John had vanished, and Donovan was stood on the other side of the room. She was drinking her coffee, looking up at the roof, clearly pretending they weren't there. Lestrade practically pushed them to the door, but Sam quickly turned and thanked him again before the brothers left, disappearing into the busy London streets.

Lestrade turned to Donovan, who was now looking at him with a raised eyebrow, unimpressed.

"I was hoping I'd never have to do that." She told him, angrily. She shook her head with disbelief, "What were you thinking?!"

Lestrade ignored her question, and asked, "Did you send Sherlock and John after them?"

"Of _course_."

* * *

Dean and Sam took a Taxi to Newport. It was about an hour drive, and almost all the way, Dean was complaining that they'd left his beloved 1967 Chevrolet Impala _'Baby'_ behind. Soon, Sam was sick of it and chose to distract Dean by discussing the plan of action – not that anything ever went to plan for them, but it was worth it to be prepared. Of course, they left out details such as 'spirits' and 'demons' because of the driver, who was fairly large and looked as though he should be boxing rather than driving, and he may have been tempted to knock some 'sense' into them. The basic plan was to scout the area around the house first, to see if there was any signs of the supernatural and maybe question the locals about what they'd seen or heard. After that, they planned to go into the house, hopefully with a clearer idea of what they were after.

An hour later, the taxi dropped them off a street away from Field Park Avenue, and the driver turned to them, pointing up the at the street with his thumb.

"It's up there." He said gruffly.

Dean frowned at him. They'd paid for the journey - sort of - why should they stop before their destination? "Can't you take us all the way?"

The driver just stared at him like he was insane, and for a minute Dean thought he really _would _knock some sense into him, "No. Get out." he snapped, and the brothers quickly left, not wanting to start anything unnecessary. After all, Dean already had a fractured jaw, and they couldn't risk breaking it until they found Castiel again.

With a screech, the Taxi turned and rode away in the opposite direction of Field Park Avenue, very fast. "That guy looks like he could bash his way through anything." Sam muttered, "So something's got him spooked."

When they walked up to Fields Park Avenue, they found out why the driver and gone off like he had. The moment they stepped on the street, they were hit so abruptly with how silent it was that they stopped. No birds. No wind. No cars or signs of people anywhere. It was deathly and eerie place, and the two brothers felt a familiar cold chill settle on their shoulders: the same kind of chill they got usually before they were ambushed by demons.

After a pause, they continued, glancing about cautiously.

The place was once beautiful; with little red and white houses and small, well-trimmed gardens as well cared for and tended to as the perfection of hand embroidery. But now, the houses looked ill, faded of colour, and the gardens were overgrown with weeds. When the brothers went to check one of the houses, they looked through the window to see all the furniture that might have once been there had been cleared out, and the whole place was void of human interaction. It was the same with all the other houses they checked. The place was completely deserted.

As they continued up the street, the cold chill they had turned into a tingling feeling, intensifying with each step they took. Neither of them could shake off the feeling that _something is very,_ very,_ wrong._

Finally, not being able to hold off what they were both thinking, Dean stopped. "Can you feel that?" he asked Sam, rubbing his arms anxiously.

Sam nodded, shivering, "Sort of a tingling inch? It's like nothing I've ever felt." He sniffed the air. It smelt of tree resin and damp soil, since it was raining earlier, and said, "There's no sulfur, neither."

"Not demons, then." Dean said. Suddenly, he was shuddering and rubbing his arms harder, "This feeling is _really_ bugging me."

"Well, the house is just up there." Sam said pointing up the road, where tall bushy trees grew like angry giants. "Let's keep going."

They lingered for a moment. _Something is very, very wrong, _playing on their minds, but at last they moved on, nearing the place where the trees grew large, casting a darkness over the house they protected. There, guarded by the tree giants was the Wester Drumlins estate, and at this place, the inching chill that had surrounded the brothers was at it's strongest. The two of them paused outside the gate that sealed the way in, wary, with every fibre of their hunter instincts screaming: _No! Don't do it!_

Sam noticed a little white house opposite the Wester Drumlins estate with a light on and pointed out to his brother. They looked at each other once, and then walked over to the house together. They noticed as they got closer that the garden was also over-grown and full of weeds, like the other houses, and the windows were dirty with scratch marks on them. The door was once white, but now it looked almost green and the paint was peeling off to reveal brown wood beneath. Sam peered in the window again. _Does someone really live here?_ He thought: But Sam was not one to judge. He had never lived in a proper house for more than a few weeks, so what would he know? With that in mind, Sam knocked forcefully on the door.

There was silence on the other side. Sam looked at Dean.

"Maybe nobody's at home." Dean suggested. _Like everyone else, _was left unsaid, not wanting to remind each other that they were completely alone. Instead, Dean looked across the street at the Wester Drumlins site. He squinted, as for a moment, Dean thought he saw someone in the window, but when he blinked they were gone. He frowned, but figured it was the eeriness of the place getting to him. _You're just seeing things._

Sam knocked on the door again, a little louder, and this time there was an answer.

"Wh-who's there?" a quiet, frightened voice called out.

Dean spun his attention back to the door, and Sam was just as surprised.

"Police." Sam said.

The door slowly opened a tiny crack, where a pale green eye peered out at them, and then swung open the whole way. A woman was stood there. She was about forty and looked deathly pale, with large black bags under her eyes and her blonde hair hung in lifeless spindles against her head. Her eyes were bloodshot, as she'd been crying too much, and her arms were shaking. The woman shifted uncomfortably at the door, picking the loose frays at the bottom of her white jumper, which added to the paleness of her blotchy skin and reminded them of a ghost, "You're here about the disappearances, aren't you?"

Dean nodded.

She gave a shaky sigh, and murmured, "That's all anyone comes around here for, these days. Even the postman is too afraid to come."

"Where is everyone, Miss...?" Sam paused politely for a name.

"Sarah." Sarah replied, uncertain, as though she hadn't used her name in a long time, "Sarah Denton. And they're gone, all too scared to stay here – well except me and Mr Clark. He said he wouldn't leave without me, and I'm not leaving until I get my son back."

"Your son? March Denton?" Sam asked, remembering the boy from the file.

Sarah nodded sadly. She looked as though she was about to cry, as her bottom lip trembled.

Sam felt sorry for her. "I know this is difficult." He told her gently, "But was March acting strangely before he disappeared?"

Sarah frowned in thought, "Well…" she hesitated, "It's nothing really…"

"Sarah." Sam smiled reassuringly, "It's okay. Please, tell us. It could really help us find your son."

Sarah looked at him for a moment. She seemed to shrink further into her house, but she did not retreat completely. "He talked about monsters."

"Monsters?" questioned Dean, pretending to be professionally curious.

Sarah nodded, "I know. It's crazy, but he thought the Wester Drumlins estate was haunted, and that the monsters would come down at night and scratch the windows."

Dean and Sam looked at each other and then looked at the scratches they could see on the windows. Sarah followed their gaze.

"Oh – the cat did that, before it vanished." She didn't sound too sure, almost as if she was reassuring herself rather than the brothers. To Dean, she sounded like his mother when she told him that the monsters couldn't get him whenever he got frightened of the dark. Back then, of course, he hadn't known about his mother's secret hunting life, and now it made sense that she was a little wary - never quite sure if the monsters could get him or not.

Dean blinked at Sarah, when the statement about the cat registered, "They took the cat, too?" he asked, scandalised.

Sarah gave him a long condescending look, "…No." she said after a lengthy pause. She frowned at him, her hand bracing on the door as she considered slamming it in their faces, "No, I don't think the cat was taken. It probably just…" she shrugged helplessly, "…ran away."

Dean realised what he just said was completely ridiculous and nodded, "No – yes, I get that but, err – I _meant_ to say that the two could be connected."

Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, Sam glanced at his brother and then said to Sarah, "Miss Denton, did anyone called Jack pass by here?"

"Yes." Sarah replied, straightening up with recognition. She looked almost relieved to talk about something familiar, as the question about the cat had thrown her off, "He came about the disappearances too…but then he vanished as well."

"Well, we wondering; did Jack say anything odd to you?" Sam asked.

Sarah rolled her eyes upwards in thought, "Not really. He just told me to stay indoors and keep safe, lock my door at night – things like that. He did ask about the Syndrome, though."

Dean frowned, "The what?"

"The Syndrome – that's what Mr Clark calls it." She rubbed her arms, "Can't you feel it?"

Sam and Dean looked at one another. The _Syndrome _was a very fitting name for the shivers that they were feelings, as it was as though they were ill in body and mind; disorientated from the moment they stepped onto the street. Sam nodded to Miss Denton. "Yes, we can. Has it always been like this?"

Sarah shook her head, "No. Only since people started disappearing. Mr Clark said it was physiological. That we're just spooked out, and we're imagining the silence, and the shivers, and the stillness of the air." She frowned, looking at the ground, not believing a word she said, "That's what he said." She repeated. Sarah looked up again, "He's right, isn't he?"

Sam and Dean looked at one another again, both thinking the same thing: _No. I don't think he is._

"Yes, miss." Sam said reassuringly, "Of course, miss. Now, one more thing. If you could tell us where Mr Clark lives, we'd be very grateful."

"Number 41." Sarah replied, sticking out a thin trembling arm to point. "Just down there."

Dean eyed her arm, disturbed by the thinness of it. "You okay there, miss?"

Sarah pulled her arm in close, like wounded animal would, and hugged it to her chest, "It's just the Syndrome."

Sam looked her up and down, deciding that she didn't look well at all, he said, firmly, "Sarah, we _will_ find March. Until then, you need to look after yourself. It would be better if you stayed with someone, but if you don't want to leave, then you should keep your doors locked."

Sarah nodded. "Okay." She whispered, her voice hoarse.

The brothers thanked her for her help and left. As soon as they were out of earshot of the house, a little way down the road towards Mr Clark's house, Dean cried out, "This place is wrong, wrong, and _wrong!"_

"Tell me about it." Sam agreed, "No wonder everyone left. Sarah should leave too – this 'Syndrome' thing looks like it's making her ill."

"You don't actually think it's some kind of mind-thing, do you?"

Sam gave his brother a unlikely look, "No, of course not. When is it _ever_ just a mind-thing? But, I'll tell you one thing; this is something we haven't come across before."

"It's a good thing I packed never possible defence we have." Dean said, with a forced grin. The cold sensation the place was giving him was making it difficult to smile, laugh, or treat anything without bitterness or sorrow.

The brothers headed down to the address Sarah had given them. Like all other houses, the garden was over-grown and the house was in terrible condition. The only people who had remained here were too afraid to step outside, let alone do house work, and this had caused a run down of what was once a beautiful, friendly street. The Winchesters made their way through the garden. The path was cracked and had cover growing over the stones, but it was still visible, and the bushes were a big enough distance a part for them to squeeze through – not without scratching themselves on the branches, however. When they made it through the jungle, they stopped at the door.

"Dean." Sam said quietly.

Dean looked at him, and noticed the closed look on his face, "What?"

"No insects."

Dean glanced round the forest that was the garden, and noticed that his brother was right. There were no insects to be seen, and no sounds that could possibly be insects to be heard. Dean gulped and murmured, "That's just messed up."

Sam sighed and knocked on the door. There was short a moment of silence before a stout man answered, poking his round head out the door, refusing to open it the whole way. Mr Clark just glared at them, "I already have _two_ of you in my house, how many more?"

Blinking, Dean said, "What?"

At that moment, Mr Clark opened the door wider and Sherlock and John appeared behind him. Dean resisted the urge to groan loudly. It was almost as though it had been rehearsed – as though the two of them planned to be there just to annoy him. Dean looked awkwardly at John, instinctively poking his jaw, and then at Sherlock, who he just had a staring content with. After a long while of static silence, Sam cleared his throat, as if it would clear away the awkwardness of the situation.

"It's good to see you again." Sam said, forcing a smile, "We didn't expect to see you here."

"That's all right." John said, returning the forced smile, "I suppose we should group together and share information, right?" he glanced up at Sherlock, who nodded, and the two of them stepped out into the garden. Sherlock marched ahead, onto the street.

John thanked Mr Clark for his time, who grumbled in response and slammed his door. John frowned at this, but then turned his attention to the brothers, "Sam and Dean, right? You coming?" He didn't wait for an answer but wandered through the garden to join with Sherlock.

The brothers followed shortly afterwards, Dean scowling suspiciously at Sherlock when they got onto the street. "Are you stalking us or something?" Dean questioned distrustfully, "Did that Greg send you after us? So much for trust."

"Please!" Sherlock snapped back at him, "You two aren't worth my time." Sam grabbed Dean's sleeve to stop him from marching forwards to punch Sherlock again. Sherlock boasted, "I'm a Consulting Detective. John is my friend. We're here to solve this case, so don't get in _my_ way."

"Consulting Detective?" Sam asked, at the same time as Dean coughed: "_You_ have _friends_?"

John sighed, "Listen, girls. We can stay here all night and argue, or we can actually do our jobs." He looked pointedly at Sam and Dean, "I don't trust you, but you're here for the same reason we are, so we might as well work together."

Sam smiled and nodded in agreement. Dean and Sherlock stared at him with disbelief.

"John!" Sherlock hissed, but John just waved a hand at him. Grudgingly, Sherlock mumbled, "Fine. Just don't get in my way."

Dean pulled a face at him, "Trust me. I'll be as far away from from as I can get."

It was nearly sunset by the time the four of them reached the house. Dean and Sherlock walked ahead, shooting glares like daggers at each other, and trying to push in front of the other. Neither of them were in a rush to reach Wester Drumlins, but both of them wanted to be in front of the other, as though it held some kind of royalty and respect to be in that position. John and Sam walked behind, and Sam was smirking, shaking his head.

"They're like children." Sam said, and that he suddenly realised how awkward it was to make conversation with people you didn't particularly want to be around.

Yet, John surprised him by saying, "No, they _are_ children." and the two of them laughed appreciatively.

Sam glanced over at John, feeling as though he should speak more now that the silence had been broken. "So…" he began, a little hesitant about making conversation with the man who fractured his brother's jaw, "What exactly _is_ a Consulting Detective?"

"Sherlock invented the job." John explained, "We basically solve crimes when the police don't have a clue, and Sherlock is fantastic at it. He can see through anyone and anything – of course, you already knew that."

Sam laughed nervously, "Yeah…It was amazing that he did that." He paused and frowned in his pensive, troubled way, looking at his shoes on the gravel, "John don't take this the wrong way, but I thought Sherlock was..." Sam was so distracted that he didn't notice that Sherlock and Dean had stopped in front of him and accidentally walked straight into Sherlock. Sherlock glared at him. Embarrassed, Sam mumbled a quick "Sorry."

The four of them were standing in front of the Wester Drumlins property, stood tall and looming, the darkness creeping in around it like a cloak. The silence had brought back the forgotten chilling sensation and although everyone was eager to break it, it felt forbidden in front of the glaring house. The four of them exchanged glances with one another, before Dean inched towards the gate. Sherlock, not one to back down from adventure and always having to be _first, first, first,_ bounded ahead of Dean, throwing himself against the gate. Dean scowled, scrambling after him. Suddenly it was a race to the top.

Sam looked at John. John switched on his torch, as the darkness was becoming more apparent, and pointed at the wall, were there was a man-sized hole leading to the gardens. Or rather, it was man-sized for John, but Sam was much taller and would have to bend down a little to fit through.

"Don't suppose you'd fancy going that way?" John asked, all polite as though he was offering a cup of tea.

Sam smirked, "Not at all."

They met up with Dean and Sherlock on the other side, who were still glaring at each other, before Dean looked away and rubbed his arms again. The inching sensation that stalked them was worse the closer they got to the house. It would be an agony to bear once they were inside. All of them were silent, unsure, hesitating. Sherlock was chewing his lip. Dean was shivering. John looked on with wide eyes, and Sam gulped loudly. In front of them, the house was a looming door to uncertainty, and from the top floor window, two eyes watched as the four of them entered it.

* * *

**Chapter Notes: **Wondering about the spelling of 'sulphur' or 'sulfur'? The traditional British spelling is 'sulphur' but the American spelling is 'sulfur' and I thought it'll be best, since the brothers are American, to spell 'sulfur' that way, and when the British characters speak, I'll spell it as 'sulphur.' Also, Google Maps is my best friend. I went on it to look at Fields Park Avenue and help me describe it. It's really useful if you can't get somewhere yourself. Oh, and fun fact about Google Maps for those of you who don't know already: There is a TARDIS that you can enter and explore around! It's really cool, but you can't go anywhere but the console. Honestly, I wish we could see more of the TARDIS to help us build an image of what it looks like beyond the console…but wouldn't that ruin the point of it being impossibly big?

Speaking of TARDIS's, we're heading into the more Whoy (?) part of the story. As you can tell, the Weeping Angels are one of the monsters I'm using (Cliché for SuperWhoLock, I know, but they really _are_ the perfect monsters to start off with) but I'm also going to use other villains from the series, but they won't be the ones you expect!


	3. Unseen Ones

**Disclaimer: **I wish I owned the Weeping Angels, because they are terrifying, but sadly, I do not.

* * *

**Three**

Unseen Ones

There was a path of ivy crawling up into the doorway, which was empty since the door itself had been kicked in and was sprawled on the floor in two pieces. It was half-buried under the mess of broken plaster and strips of lifeless wall paper, like it had made a grave for itself. Through the mess, a path had been cleared through years of people entering the house – the only evidence that people came in here before they disappeared.

One by one, Sherlock, Dean, John and Sam entered the first room of the house, all quiet with anticipation.

The room was bright since it was facing the west were the sun was setting. Orange light poured through tall, narrow windows and lit up the pale yellow wallpaper. The room was a beacon, luring them further and further into the confines of the house…However, when they went into the corridor, all the light seemed to shrink away. The four of them had to rely on their torches – or flashlights, in Sam and Dean's case – to guide them around the building.

Sherlock marched ahead and then came to an abrupt stop at the foot of the stairs. He began to rapidly move the light from his torch in different areas: wherever his eyes went, the light followed, as the great detective took in every detail as he would a single breath: a means to survive. He noticed a light switch, but it was clear it wouldn't work because the casing was cracked, as well as the fact that no one would have bothered to replace the light bulbs. The detective paused and closed his eyes. He inhaled deeply taking in the scent of dust – specifically concentrate and stucco, which told him the house could have been built as far back as the 50's – and the thick smell felt wet in his nostrils.

Behind Sherlock, Dean was staring at him. To Dean, the detective seemed to be having a fit, waving his torch like that, and then when Sherlock suddenly stopped and inhaled, he just raised his eyebrow. He was about to tap Sherlock on the shoulder to make a snarky comment about wasting time, but Sherlock seemed to restart and he swung round and took a large stride into the next room. Dean didn't follow for a moment. He looked up the stair case, but he couldn't see anything beyond the top few steps. It made him nervous to have a blind spot, and his hand fell to the knife in his pocket. After a moment or so, Dean moved on, determined that there was nothing there.

For now.

John followed Dean, his footsteps silent even though he was wearing boots. His treads were perfectly coordinated, placed with extreme care, like he was walking through a mine field. He stopped, his torch light darting to the roof, when he thought he heard a creak from upstairs…_it's just the house, _he told himself. He rolled his shoulders back and stood up taller.

Behind him, Sam was glancing in every direction, looking over his shoulder from time to time to see if they were being followed – something that happened often on the hunts he went on with Dean. Each time Sam looked over his shoulder, there was nobody there, but still he couldn't shake off the daunting feeling that they were not alone.

Something hissed under his foot.

Sam jumped, but relaxed when he realised it was just him stepping on plaster. John had spun round in alarm, but Sam quickly held up his hands to signal that it was only him. John's shoulders sagged in relief, and then he turned towards the second room in which Dean and Sherlock had already entered. Sam paused by the door. It was much lighter in the second room, much to his relief because the darkness was beginning to grate on his nerves. However it wasn't the only aspect of the house that was grating against Sam's nerves; the Syndrome feeling seemed to become stronger the closer they were to this particular room, and it made Sam hesitate to enter it.

"Do you feel that?" Sam asked John in a quiet voice, barely breaking the silence.

John blinked over at him, "Feel what?"

"That…tingling feeling." Sam replied, though it was hardly a tingling sensation any more. Now it was as clear and heavy as a thick coat over his shoulders; a great mass weighing down on him. Surely John could feel it? Everyone else had.

John gave him the answer he was not expecting. He gave him a reassuring smile, "It's probably just your imagination." He replied and moved to follow Sherlock and Dean into the second room.

This room was a greyish green overall compared to the other. There was a large window with no glass that showed the view of a greenhouse and, like every other garden they had seen today, it was untidy and growing out of control. The wall paper was once a rich blue with a repeated white flower pattern, but over time it faded to a dismal grey and was hanging off the wall. As the four of them explored the room, the floorboards creaked and moaned.

On the far wall, where the wall paper had been ripped away to reveal a bright green beneath, there was a strange message:

BEWARE THE WEEPING ANGELS. OH AND DUCK. NO REALLY. DUCK! SALLY SPARROW. DUCK NOW!

LOVE FROM THE DOCTOR (1969)

Dean smirked when he saw it. _Not your average love confession, _he thought, _most people write their initials in a heart._ Of course, Dean would know. He had done it with quite a few girls himself, especially in High School. He never really paid attention to meaning behind it however: he was young and wanted excitement between hunts and he knew that girls liked a touch of romance; although the message on the wall was anything but romantic. And what was that about ducks?

Meanwhile, Sherlock began studying the scrawling. He moved his head to peer at it from different angles, the gears in his mind grinding away. He cocked his head to the side, and imagined the wall was covered in wall paper. If he was to reach up to the top and pull the paper down, the word 'BEWARE' would appear first. Then if he continued ripping the wall paper off, the next words would appear in the order they made sense in._ Could be a coincidence, _Sherlock thought, _but the universe is rarely so lazy._ He leaned forwards and took a large sniff of the ink. Sherlock licked his thumb and rubbed the base of the letter 'B' and it smudged. He sensed that the other three were watching him and smiled at that, liking to be the centre of attention.

As usual, John was waiting patiently for his friend, but part of him wondered why Sherlock was trying to deduce a _wall, _of all things. Sam was watching Sherlock, perplexed yet fascinated by what he was doing, trying to match this man with the detective he read about in his childhood books. Dean was just staring at Sherlock like he was insane.

At last, Dean quipped, "What are you doing? Looking for intelligent life?"

"Any life found here would be far more intelligent than yours." Sherlock replied immediately and pushed himself away from the wall, and said, "This is Carbon ink. It's long lasting and doesn't fade in sunlight, but it smudges in wet conditions. The words were placed here as the house was being built, before the wall paper went up, because they were placed in a fashion that would mean someone would discover them and read them in the right order."

There was a moment of silence where Sherlock's words where allowed to sink in.

"So, what are you saying?" Sam asked, "That someone is trying to warn us?"

"About the 'Weeping Angels'?" John said doubtfully, "It sounds like an emo rock band, in which case we _should_ beware."

Sam grinned at him.

Dean was looking at the wall, intrigued by the message, when he felt a breath of air brush against his neck. At first he ignored it – _it's nothing -_but it happen again and again, like someone desperate for attention. Dean looked back down the corridor then froze.

The woman was stood there; the one dressed in white from his dream; the one who gave him Death's ring. She almost the same as she did before: she was still wearing the white dress and the white orchid was still tucked behind her ear. However, her hair style was different. Instead of her bronze curls spilling over her shoulder, they were tied back in a long ponytail. Upon seeing her, Dean felt a throbbing in his chest and winced.

"Dean." The woman said urgently, "Look behind you."

Dean did not. He stared at the woman, wondering if the others would see her – if they _could _see her. So far they hadn't reacted, but Dean didn't want to check in case the woman vanished when he turned away.

"Look behind you." She repeated, louder this time. When Dean didn't respond, she began making her way towards him. Dean held his ground, not wanting to show that he was a little intimidated by the strange woman. As she approached him, the throbbing in his chest hurt more and more, and he bit his lip against the pain until it was almost unbearable – at which point the woman passed through him like air. Dean spun round, but she was gone. The only thing that was behind him was a large window which lead to a greenhouse and in the greenhouse; surround by a fog of leaves; was a lonely grey statue.

The statue was an angel, with large wings sprouting out from its back. It appeared to a lady, with a long dress that, even though it was stone, appeared to be flowing around her ankles, which were lost in the overgrown garden. Delicate hands covered her face, as though she was weeping.

Dean glanced back down the corridor where the nightmare-woman had been, but she was no longer there. He felt someone touch his shoulder and tensed up, spinning round to see Sam.

"Whoa." Sam murmured, shocked at the movement, "You okay?"

Dean looked at him for a moment. Why hadn't Sam seen the woman? Who was she? What does she want? At last, he nodded, "Yeah, yeah. Fine."

Sam raised his eyebrow, "Are you sure? You zoned out for a second there."

"Yeah, I'm fine. I was…" Dean hesitated. Lying to Sammy felt wrong, but it didn't mean he should tell him the truth. "Thinking." He finished. It wasn't a lie, but it wasn't exactly the truth either.

"God help us all."

Dean spun round and glared at Sherlock. "I heard that!"

As John rolled his eyes at the two men's bickering, he heard the sound of rustling leaves and turned to the greenhouse. He frowned, eyes squinting, and without turning around, he called out to the others, "Um…Guys?"

No one had heard him. Dean was busy glaring at Sherlock, while the detective returned the gaze neutrally. Sam was holding his brother back by the arm.

"Dean – don't." Sam was saying, "Not again."

"Listen to your brother. He clearly has a slightly above average IQ, which is a lot more than your own, and it's unnecessary to start any stupid brawls, especially since I'm trying to do you a favour. Stop thinking, Dean Winchester, it is both physically painful and hideous watching you try."

When Dean managed to untangle the mess of words that Sherlock spat out at him – halfway through he registered a quiet "hey, men?" but chose to ignore it for what the detective was saying – he stopped short and glared at Sherlock. He snapped, pointing his finger close to Sherlock's face, "Don't insult Sammy!"

There was a pause, in which Sam frowned and Sherlock just stared.

"Um…" Sam said at last, "He wasn't."

Sherlock huffed, "Moron."

Meanwhile, John was looking between the three of them. He didn't really want to use his soldier-voice, but it appeared he might have to; since the three of them where so far gone in their argument. He waved his hands in exasperation and tried again, a little louder, "Guys? Hello?"

Dean growled at Sherlock, "You're a dick, you know that?"

"Yes, yes…as you are keen on reminding us all." Sherlock drawled, "Are you _capable_ of doing anything else?"

"Gentlemen!" John barked, his voice so commanding that it could not be ignored. It reminded Dean of his father, and he almost shivered, looking over to where John was stood.

Everyone had now stopped talking, and was looking over at John.

John looked between them and when he was sure he had their full attention, he turned, and pointed his torch at the gardens, "Was that statue like that before?"

Everyone was silent. They all stared at the statue. Sam's eyes were wide. Sherlock's eyes were narrowed. John was squinting, shifting from one foot to another. Dean was gawping a little, his eyes big.

The statue of the angel was stood in the greenhouse, but it was a lot closer than any of them remembered. But that wasn't the strangest part – its hands, which had been covering its eyes, were now lowered, and two freakish eyes with no pupils were staring back at them.

Dean took out his gun, "No. It's moved."

"Don't be absurd!" hissed Sherlock, but for the first time that day, he didn't sound sure of himself. He looked confused, and he was agitated because of that.

"Beware the Weeping Angels." Sam murmured, reciting what was on the wall. He glanced over at Dean, then at John, who was staring at him.

"You don't actually think…" He stopped, glanced over his shoulder at the statue, and then back again. John shook his head, "No. We probably just imagined it."

Their attention snapped back to the statue as they heard leaves in the greenhouse rustling. But it was just the wind, and the statue hadn't moved. Maybe they had just imagined it…

The wind became blustery, picking up the leaves in the room and swirling them around. The bushes outside bent double and flung about; the gate outside rattled; the leaves in the room began to swirl. It was terrifying after the place was so still and lifeless a moment before. John frowned, as he thought he heard an odd echo on the wind that sounded as though it was coming from all around them, but then it seemed to focus in one place. John turned around, "What the hell is that noise?"

The others turned too. Dean and Sam confused, as they just thought it was just the wind. Sherlock was sharp and focused, for his hearing was trained to be better than that of Dean's, John's or Sam's and he heard something else on the wind, like a warping metallic sound. He also heard shuffling on the floorboards and within a millisecond his brain told him: _None of us are moving._

Sherlock turned, but there was nothing. _That's strange. I could have sworn I heard…_

A creak.

Sherlock twirled back around to come face to face with a pair of cold, dead eyes. The angel statue stood nose-to-nose with Sherlock, its teeth sharpened into two rows of stone fangs, barely a millimetre away from piercing his skin. Sherlock let out a quiet, strangled sound and stared, wide-eyed with disbelief, fear and shock, into the cold stone eyes of the angel and found himself unable to look away.

"What the hell?" Sam breathed, backing up.

John pulled out his Browning L9A1, and pointed it at the statue, only hesitating when logic questioned his actions, "How does it do that? It's just a statue."

Dean's hand gripped his knife out of instinct – but what then? Dean couldn't _stab_ a statue. He thought about salt, or iron, but how could he know what to do without knowing what he was fighting? He glanced over at Sam. "Sammy?"

Sam didn't look at him. He was stock-still, staring hard at the statue. He shook his head: He was just as clueless as Dean was.

Meanwhile, Sherlock had taken a small step back. He shifted the torch in his hands and pointed it at the angels face, lighting up the horrifying snarl with a pale ghostly light. Then he gingerly reached his hand out towards the angel.

John sucked in a sharp breath, "Sherlock…"

Sherlock touched the angel. His slender fingers delicately traced the wrinkles around the statues snarling mouth. "That's not…" he pulled his hand back sharply.

Sam twitched at the movement.

John licked his dry lips, "What is it?"

"It's granite." Sherlock said, shaking his head slowly, "But it can't…"

Dean stared at him with disbelief, "Wait – are you saying that that _thing_ is…" Dean was briefly distracted by his flashlight flickering "…stone?"

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it again.

"We should get out of here." Sam said.

"I agree." John said, looking at Sherlock nervously, "Sherlock?"

Sherlock nodded. He began to back away from the statue and come round to where the others where the stood. He saw that the angel had moved from the greenhouse to next to him in less than a second. _Impossible! Nothing could move that fast…_ He turned to John – sometimes John would say just the right thing; the thing that would help him solve the mystery. John seemed to sense that Sherlock was looking at him because he looked up at his friend and shook his head. Dean and Sam turned and glanced at him also, and then…

"Jesus _Christ!" _

The angel had moved again. It was barely a metre away from them, reaching out towards them with its sharp claws like it wanted to carve into them.

"Every time we look away it's closer!"

"Okay then." Sam gulped, nodding to reassure himself, "Don't look away. There's just one, so if one person at least is looking in its direction the whole time, it can't follow us right?"

"That might be a bit of a problem." John breathed. He cleared his throat, struggling for air as he tried to keep his breathing quiet and steady, like he would have done in the war. "We only have torches and it's almost night time." He cleared his throat again, "…It's going to be a bit difficult to see it, don't you think?"

It was true. The sky was becoming a mauve-blue now that the sun was gone. The twilight was their only source of natural light. What was worse, the moment John pointed this out, every light in the room decided to flicker all at once.

John shook his head in astonishment, "Oh, that's not fair."

"Any one got any bright ideas?" Dean asked, a tense smile on his face. His flashlight flickered again and he gulped.

"Time and a place, Dean." Sam said, breathing heavily.

There was a rustle, and everybody stopped.

Something was moving behind them.

"Don't turn around!" a voice cried, suddenly, making Sam jump who was closest to it. He felt a warm hand on his shoulder, "Don't blink, okay? You're doing great. Here, take this." Sam felt him push something thin and cool into his hand, and then the stranger gently grabbed his elbow and lifted his arm up. Sam saw that he was holding a hand mirror, with the reflective side facing the angel.

"What are you doing?" Sam hissed, resisting the urge to flinch.

"Just use the mirror." The stranger said, not answering his question, "Oh, and don't look into its eyes."

"Why?!" cried John, confused and alarmed.

"You'll thank me later." was the reply.

Sam used the mirror like the man said had and held it up between him and the glaring eyes of the Weeping Angel, so he could no longer see its face. When the statue showed no signs of movement, his shoulders shagged in relief. He risked a look at their saviour.

He moved swiftly and mysteriously, with a skip in his step, his long purple-brown frock coat flapping about. He wore a grey waistcoat beneath it, and black trousers and black ankle-high boots. He also wore a brown bow-tie and a blue shirt. There was a strange contraption over his chest, held there by a leather strap over his right shoulder. It was mostly black with a grey circular panel in the centre that appeared to be a light of some sort, although it was switched off. There was a mirror attached to the top with a flexible tube, which jutted out over the man's left shoulder. The man glanced in the mirror constantly.

Dean had also been handed a mirror, and was looking between the stranger and the Weeping Angel cautiously, almost questioning which one would attack first.

"I only have two spare mirrors." He looked apologetically at John and Sherlock, who just stared back and then turned to Sam and Dean, "Two of my companions left those behind, so be careful!"

"Look at us…" Dean scoffed, "Using mirrors like we're fighting frigging Medusa!"

"Nice comparison, only Medusa turns _you_ to stone when you look at her, but when you look at an Angel, _they're_ the ones who turn to stone!" He pushed his brown hair back from his eyes. Raising a finger, he declared, "Now, we need to get out of here before it gets too dark, or the mirrors will be useless." He looked pointedly at the torches they were carrying, and nodded to them with his large chin, "And those won't do you any good, I'm afraid. They can drain the light out of them."

"Who are you?" Sam asked.

"The Doctor." The other swiftly answered, "Now, no more questions. Make your way out the door, I'll cover you."

No one moved, either too scared or too distrusting; it was hard to tell. However, that was until Sam moved, deciding to put his trust into this stranger, and he inched towards the door, constantly pointing his mirror at the statue. On instinct, Dean followed his brother, doing the same as him. The Doctor nodded encouragingly, turning his back on the angel. He adjusted his mirror so he could walk forwards and watch the angel at the same time. He gave John a friendly tap on the shoulder, and the man started, but was encouraged to move. After John began to move, Sherlock began to stalk out as well.

When Sam and Dean made it out of the room, they turned to run out of that house forever, but then they jolted to a stop. Another Weeping Angel was blocking the way out, its teeth bared hungrily and its arms out stretched so they couldn't get around it.

"Upstairs!" the Doctor cried behind them.

Watching the statue with wide eyes, Sam moved up the steps first, followed by Dean and then John. Not one of them dared to look away.

Sherlock lingered and glared the Doctor, "What's _happening?_" he demanded.

"You're about to die. Now _run!"_ the Doctor shoved Sherlock into a running motion up the stairs and then followed himself, using the mirror to watch the two Weeping Angels.

Sam and Dean had made it to the top of the stairs, where the steps spilt into two, one going left and the other going right. The brothers steered right, only to stagger to an unexpected stop. Dean gave strangled cry, and Sam sucked in a sharp breath: another two angel statues were there, teeth bared and snarling. In their shock, they dropped the mirrors they were holding and they shattered into a million tiny pieces.

John ran up next and jerked to a stop. "Oh, God." He breathed, "Oh my God."

"Not that way!" called the Doctor. He was at the top of the stairs now, blindly shoving Sherlock up the opposite steps, ever taking his eyes of the angels behind him. The two Weeping Angels from downstairs where now halfway up them, reaching out towards him with their talons. The Doctor said to Sam, Dean and John, "Walk backwards! Don't blink."

The men did as they were told, too fearful to do anything else. The Doctor guided them, giving them the appropriate 'step up' and the reassuring 'it's okay. You're doing great' at all the right moments. "Now do me a favour." He said, "Watch those two behind me."

They did. Their eyes were burning and they all wished that Sam and Dean hadn't dropped the mirrors - though they didn't understand what was happening or how, it was clear that they were helpful to them and he missed them.

Sam asked, "How many are there?"

"Just four." The Doctor reassured, walking up the rest of the steps and turning towards Sam, Dean, John and Sherlock so he could watch the Angels that were already upstairs through his mirror. "Trust me, I've been here before. Okay, now walk into the next room."

"Is there a way out?" Dean asked.

"Yep." The Doctor breathed, "Now, go."

The five of them turned and continued to the next room, placing their trust in the mysterious man who had come to their aid to continue protecting them from the Weeping Angels. The Doctor followed quickly afterwards. Dashing through the doorway, he pressed his back against the wall and pulled the mirror into the doorway. He yelped. All four of the Weeping Angels were just a hair away from the mirrors surface. Everyone had stopped in the first room, unable to keep running because the doorway was blocked by a large blue box.

John scowled, breathing in and out deeply, "Where the hell..." he breathed, "...did _that _come from?"

"Get in!" the Doctor cried, desperation making his voice break.

Dean just stared at him, certain that this man was crazy, "Dude, we ain't all gonna fit in _that._"

The Doctor snapped his fingers and the doors to the box swung inwards. They couldn't see what was inside – it was all dark like a black screen. "Just get in!" the Doctor cried again, desperately, for his eyes were raw and red from not blinking, and in the mirror, the angels were just inches away from him.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the strange blue box. His well-trained ears could hear the mechanic whir of machinery coming from within it. Curiosity getting the better of him, Sherlock bounded forwards and leapt inside, disappearing from view. The others waited for him to come back out, or for him to say something, but there was nothing from the detective.

"Sherlock?" John called, but there was still no response.

Sam, who was the closest to the box, poked his head inside. He was quiet for a moment and then cried, "Oh my _GOD_!"

Dean and John exchanged looks then tumbled into the box after Sam.

The Doctor allowed himself a smirk, not taking his eyes off the angels. Then he ran after them, constantly looking into the mirror and seeing the statues snarl at him from the doorway away. He ran into the box and the doors snapped shut behind him.

There was a moment when nothing happened. Then there was a hollow clunk resonating from within the box. The blue box made a loud groaning noise - it was as if it was breathing. When in breathed in, a rattling groan, the box became see-through, and then it breathed out, and it became completely visible again. With each raspy breath it faded slightly, then returned less and less, until the box disappeared completely as it it had never been. The noise lingered in the house for a moment after the box had gone, echoing around the rooms, swirling through the leaves, but then everything fell into nothingness. The house was still and empty, except for the statues that moved in the dark.

* * *

**A.N: **A friend read this and asked if there was going to be any sort of cliff hanger/tension at the end of chapters. My answer: At the moment, no. Most of the tension will be coming from the characters themselves, but when I get into the main plot of the story, that's when the story-tension will start. The reason for this is mainly because I'll be going away soon and I don't want to leave you hanging for months on end.

**Chapter Notes: **I have to thank TheDavethebiker on Youtube for helping me with this chapter. He has a video called 'DOCTOR WHO…BLINK FILMING LOCATION' which helped me describe the inside of the house in this chapter. I had to change some details to make it coexist with the Wester Drumlins we saw in the original episode, but it was nothing major. I also discovered that Wester Drumlins is actually called Fields House and is currently listed for refurbishment. Half of the house has people living there (personally, I'd be freaked). The "contraption" the Doctor is wearing is the same one he uses in the series 5 episode 'The Doctor and Vincent' to see the Krafayis with. I used it simply because it had a mirror the Doctor could use to look behind him.

Thanks for reading, everyone.


	4. A Synergy Of Sorts PART 1

**Disclaimer: **My story, not my characters.

**A.N:** This chapter has been spilt into two parts for easier reading.

Special thanks to reviewer74 for being the first to review this story.

* * *

**Four**

A Synergy Of Sorts – PART 1

With the line of work Dean and Sam shared, hunting the freakishly weird on a daily basis, it was difficult to be _really_ shocked by something. Most of the time, the most shocking thing to happen would probably be considered normal for someone else. For example, Sam actually buying pie when he went shopping because nothing normal ever happened to the Winchester brothers. They'd seen it all. Demons, Hell and Heaven, fairies, vampires and even creatures that hadn't been named yet. So what could possibly shock them? Sure, there were moments were they'd think 'what the hell just happened?' but there was nothing that shocked them _beyond_ confusion; breaking down the fabrics of reality they had sewn up to support the mess they called their lives.

Until now, that is.

They weren't the only ones astounded by what they saw. John's leg had gave way and, swearing, he stumbled, reaching out to take hold of the railing and clinging to it. Then he stared at it, all logic telling him that it couldn't exist. Meanwhile, Sherlock was stood ramrod straight, a little further in front of everyone as he had charged in and stumbled to a stop, and his eyes were wide. Dean would think that Sherlock and John were definitely not having a good day, if his mind hadn't gone completely blank. Next to him, Sam was gawking, wanting to speak but was unable to find words that made sense to describe what he was seeing.

It was a short moment before the Doctor jumped inside and the doors slammed shut behind him of their own accord. The Doctor weaved round them, mumbling apologetic 'excuse me's, until he had crossed the platform they were stood on. He threw the strange contraption off his chest and breathed a sigh of relief, before running to the centre of the room to a large hexagonal panel.

At last, Sam found his voice, "It's…_bigger_ on the _inside_."

The gigantic room Sam, John, Dean and Sherlock had found themselves in was mostly blue and silver in colour; mostly metal and flashing lights. The roof looked like a cocoon, with ridges that curled into the centre, joining to the panel that the Doctor was currently dancing around. He flicked a few switches, mumbling things to himself. There was a hollow clunk and the whole room shifted. It was a gentle movement but it was strong enough to sway them. Once again, they heard the rasping, groaning sound that they had previously mistaken for wind. The cylinder above the panel glowed green and began to move up and down as the machine – the only word that made sense to describe it - rasped. Eventually, it stopped with another clunk and everything became quiet.

The Doctor spun round on his heel to face the others. He clapped his hands together, "Well then." He said, "Glad we got out of that one!"

He was met with four bewildered stares.

"Who _are_ you?" John asked, finally managing to push himself back to his feet. The phantom limp in his leg didn't bother him as much as it once did; but there were times, when he'd just escaped from danger, when his sleeping injury awoken, almost as if it sensed it was a good time to fall limp.

The Doctor gave John a look somewhere between puzzled and amused. "I told you: I'm the Doctor."

Dean shifted uneasily, the gun under his jacket moving against him in a somewhat reassuring fashion. He scowled at the Doctor. "Yeah, and exactly _what_ are you?"

The Doctor grinned at him, "Oh, you're good!" he said, meaning every word, "Most people don't pick up on that straight away. And I thought the TARDIS was a give big away!"

John raised his eyebrows. He was hearing a lot of strange words today. First it was the 'Weeping Angels' the emo rock band, and now the 'TARDIS' that sounded a lot like the name of a social drug. He imagined Billy Wiggins and many other of Sherlock's band of drug addicts would know what it is – Sherlock himself would probably know, and John looked questioningly at his friend. Sherlock hadn't been on drugs since Charles Magnussen was at large, a few months prior to this, but that didn't mean he didn't know what was what. But when John looked at Sherlock, Sherlock just looked…lost; like an adventurous child who had wandered too far into the woods and didn't know the way back home. John narrowed his eyes at this.

It was Sam who asked the question everyone was wondering. "What's a…TARDIS?"

This made the Doctor's grin widen like a twelve year old boy with a bag of sweets. He stretched out his arms, gesturing to the open space the men had found themselves in, "This is my TARDIS!" he proclaimed with great pride, "It stands for 'Time And Relative Dimension In Space'."

The four men found themselves staring round with wonder. Sam was impressed. Dean looked a little intimidated. John was amazed. Sherlock was just jealous; he stood up straighter to make himself look taller and glared down at the Doctor. The Doctor just looked between the four of them, his smile never wavering.

Dean narrowed his eyes and looked back at the Doctor, "Space?" he echoed. He paused, looking the Doctor up and down as his hand moved to the gun under his jacket. He couldn't believe what he was about to ask – not even with his ridiculous life filled with demons, angels, God, time travel, and monsters of all kinds: _This_ was something he was certain could not exist. Then again, he'd been wrong before.

He said, "Are you an alien?"

"I am!" The Doctor replied. He clapped his hands together, "Okay with that, are we?"

His question was answered with a gun in his face.

"Okay. Not quite what I was expecting."

Sam was startled by Dean's fast reflexes. Usually, he'd support his brother in this kind of affair – it was their job, after all – but he couldn't help but feel torn. The Doctor had saved their lives, hadn't he? Didn't they owe him the benefit of the doubt? Sam said, in a cautious voice, "Dean."

"He's not human, Sam!" Dean cried.

"Neither is Cas. Or Benny." Sam retorted. He paused and added, "Neither was Amy."

Dean winced at that. He still felt guilty about Amy, even though he was sure he'd done the right thing. For a moment, he felt angry at Sam for using it against him, but when his rational side washed over the flames of rage, he realised that Sam had a point: the Doctor hadn't done anything wrong, unlike Amy, but Dean ensured himself that the second he did, he would put down him like he'd done so many others. At last, Dean lowered his gun.

"Guns…" The Doctor hissed like it was a curse word. When he saw Dean slip the gun back under his jacket and give a nod to indicate that he wouldn't shoot, the Doctor gave a grateful smile to Sam. "I like you. What's your name?"

"Sam." Sam replied, looking up and down at the strange man. He wasn't naïve; he knew better than to trust a monster from his times with Ruby – but this man had saved them and hadn't done anything to threaten them. Yet. Sam nodded to his brother, "This is my brother, Dean."

Dean nodded grudgingly.

The Doctor gave a tight smile and turned to look over at John and Sherlock. John was watching everyone in the room with caution, his features cooled into his soldier-face. Sherlock was still glaring as he took a large stride forwards and, sticking out his hand, he practically spat his name in the Doctor's face; "Sherlock Holmes."

The Doctor paused. The smile on his lips almost slipped from his face, but he quickly caught it. "Really?" he said, shaking Sherlock's hand respectively. He looked over at John, who had pushed himself away from the railing and was taking the few heedful steps to join them. "And you must be John Watson?"

John reached to shake his hand, his mask hardening while still remaining polite, "Yes, but…how do you know that?" The Doctor looked between Sherlock and John, a little panicked, but he cooled his features when John said, "Have you read the blog too?"

The Doctor nodded quickly, "Yes, yes. _Great _stuff. Very…" his mouthed worked, "…bloggy."

John was a little alarmed. Sure, he knew his blog was popular but knowing _extra-terrestrials _were reading it – then John stopped that thought because: Aliens? How could he believe that? Surely this was some strange dream? Perhaps Sherlock had drugged him again? Whatever the case, this illusion sure beats the ones he had about the war.

"Now, I'll take you lot home." The Doctor said, spinning on his heels and bounding back to the console. The Doctor pushed a leaver facing the door and the TARDIS made a whirring cry. The lights in the room intensified as if the TARDIS had suddenly awakened.

The others took this as a welcome, and went further into the TARDIS. As they went further into the ship, they could see a silver balcony stretching around the room, which could be reached by silver steps. Sherlock followed the balcony with his eyes, turning around, and seeing that there were two other doors on either side and above the main ones, leading into the unknown. To the right of him, there were more steps leading into a large chamber that opened up below the console. Sherlock realised that where they were stood was barely a portion of the whole TARDIS.

Meanwhile, John and Sam were looking at the console, where all the controls were. Sam was looking at the one of the two screens that hung out from the silver band below the cylinder. At first he thought they were computer screens, but there was no keyboard anywhere. The controls for the TARDIS, John observed, looked almost patchwork – like remnants of different machines fixed together. They were not just in the centre; there were two side panels which had switches and controls also. John moved aside as the Doctor jumped from the centre panel to the left side panel, flicking a switch, and then back again.

The Doctor said, "Where are you living?"

John was looking up at the spinning panels above the console as they increased in speed with the more buttons the Doctor pressed. It was unlike any of the machines he'd seen during his time with the military. At the Doctor's question, John looked over at the man, a little confused, "Um…22B1 Baker Street – but why?"

Where Dean was, at the top of the balcony steps, he could see the whole Console Room. He felt the steps vibrate beneath him and heard the TARDIS take a deep trembling breath and he felt very small, like he was in the belly of a beast; sheltered but nerve wrecking. He turned and looked at the Doctor, "Wait." He said, his curiosity peeking, "You can take us there? In here?"

The Doctor grinned. He walked around the console again, slapped Sherlock's hand before he could press the switch, giving him a scolding look, and punched a large button beside Sam. "The TARDIS…" he told them all, "…can travel anywhere in time and space. Push a lever and you and end up _everywhere!_"

On the word 'everywhere', he threw hands out and the TARDIS chimed as though it was a part of him. Then the room jerked to right.

John fell into the console with a grunt as Dean fell down the steps.

"Whoa!" Sam cried as he fell back into his brother, bouncing off him and almost toppling over if he hadn't grabbed the side panel just in time. When Sam hit Dean, Dean was thrown into one of the black leather chairs, and he gripped it with all his might as the room tipped and spun, gritting his teeth.

Dean growled furiously at the Doctor, "What the hell are you doing?!"

The Doctor laughed. "Trust me." was all he said.

Sherlock tumbled into the console beside John and gripped it tight. The Doctor bounced to his side and whooped. He gave Sherlock a winning grin. Sherlock couldn't suppress the tiniest of smiles; even if nothing made sense here, he couldn't doubt the thrill of his heart pumping and the blood shooting down his veins. The TARDIS tipped again, this time to the left, and John almost fell to the floor if Sherlock hadn't grabbed his arm just in time. They stared at one another, and then burst into hysterical laughter. Dean did fall, however, right off the chair he was on and to the floor. He slid right across the room, past the others. He almost fell off the platform if he hadn't grabbed the railing. Now he was hanging with nothing beneath him.

He swore, "Son of a…"

The TARDIS whirred loudly, blocking out the rest of his words, and the Doctor grinned. "Don't swear in front of her!" he said mock-scolding, but Dean was too busy clinging for his life to hear him. Then, with one final clunk, the TARDIS tipped upright to its original position. John, Sherlock and the Doctor bumped against the console, almost hitting their heads, while Sam slumped to the ground with a grunt.

Sam puffed out an excited breath. "That was…that was…that was…"

"Awful!" Dean shuddered, picking himself up slowly. He looked like a cat that had just been dunked in water. "God _damn it!_ Don't ever do that again!"

The Doctor scowled, "There's always one…" he muttered, but brightened up instantly afterwards.

John looked between them. He was breathing heavily, but was grinning. "That was ridiculous. That was just….ridiculous. Am I dreaming?"

The Doctor smiled at him, "Nope. And you're home, now." He said and then pointed at the door and clicked his fingers. The doors swung open with a creak. Through them, there was no eerie house with frightening angel statues that moved when you weren't looking. No. Now there was a chocolate brown room with warm carpets and creamy orange lampshades.

"We've moved." Sam breathed, staring with disbelief, "We've actually moved."

"Now, off you go all of you." The Doctor said gently, though his feet were firmly planted by the console, "I'll be out in a second. I just need to, er…" He smacked his lips together, "I need to configure the, um, fez calibrations. See you in a second."

"Whatever." Dean hissed, "Just get me off this thing."

Dean literally _ran_ off the TARDIS and, with a knowing smirk, Sam followed. John and Sherlock left soon after, drawn to the familiarity of Sherlock's flat as flies would be drawn to the beauty of light, and the doors creaked shut behind them. The Doctor's smile, that was so perfectly carved and crafted for the four strangers on his ship, had now vanished. His face looked suspicious, dark and shadowy, with a secret hidden beneath the surface. His eyes had lost their childish sparkle and looked like the eyes of an old man.

The TARDIS made a wailing sound. A single anxious note repeated again and again and again, until the Doctor soothed the TARDIS, patting it gently on the console.

"I know, I know." The Doctor whispered to it, "I didn't think it was true. Something's not right here. It feels wrong…_very_ wrong." He chewed his bottom lip in thought. "But I can't just…leave. They'll be suspicious."

On the screen in front of him, a number appeared with a quite beep to alert it's presence. The Doctor looked up at it curiously. He knew straight away that it wasn't a traditional Earth number - those things are useless to the rest of the universe - but these were Space-Time Coordinates. Inside each of the four digits there were millions of tiny numbers that lead to a location and time zone somewhere in universe. The TARDIS used them to travel, and sometimes call people from different eras. In fact, just last week, the Doctor had a very long and interesting conversation with Florence Nightingale.

"Help line?" the Doctor said with a smile. He picked up the phone next to him and pressed it to his ear. He could hear the phone dialling the coordinates. He had a strong feeling he knew who it was, and the TARDIS was right to call them. If anyone could help, and would help no questions asked, it was _her._ "Calling the missus, are we?"

After a moment, there was a click on the other end of the line, and a woman's voice answered, "This is the Starlight Baths and Salon. How may we help you?"

The Doctor raised an eyebrow at that, but he continued all the same because he trusted his TARDIS more then any other living creature, and his TARDIS was never wrong. The Doctor said to the woman on the line, "I'm looking for a woman who goes by the name River Song. Tell her it's the Doctor."

There was a short pause where the Doctor could hear the woman rustling through some papers. "I'll put you through now." the voice said eventually and there was another pause where some murmured chatter in the background could be heard. The Doctor tapped a quick rhythm on the console as he waited.

At last, another woman's voice came through. It was light, mysterious and cheeky, as well as a tiny bit sad. The voice said, "Hello, Sweetie."

"Hi, honey." The Doctor replied, "The Starlight Baths? Really?"

"My treat." River explained, "You've just gone to get drinks."

It was not something he remembered doing; it was his future. No wonder River was being vague. Even though he knew he wouldn't get an answer, just to break the rules, the Doctor asked, "What's the occasion?"

"Spoilers!" River singed her usual tune, and the Doctor huffed in amusement.

Then the Doctor frowned. He looked over his shoulder where Sherlock, John, Sam and Dean had disappeared into the flat, to make sure no one was still lingering. The doors were shut, but he lowered his voice just in case. "River, I need your help."

* * *

"Is it a case?"

John Watson pressed the phone firmly to his ear, but hesitated in his response because, honestly, he wasn't sure what to call _this _any more. He was watching Sherlock as the man repeatedly walked around the blue box that was currently stood in the entrance to the kitchen - how he would explain to Mrs Hudson how it got there he didn't know, since it was too large to fit through the doors or windows. Meanwhile, Sam and Dean were stood on the other side of the flat by the windows. Dean looked a little pale – _Kinetosis_ his medical mind told him – and Sam was watching Sherlock, but his eyes would wander curiously around flat from time to time, as though he'd stepped in a childhood dream. John was just waiting for some kind of deduction from Sherlock, while trying to focus on the phone call.

"John?" his wife's voice came through the phone, gentle, questioning.

Phone call. Right. That's what he was doing.

"Er, yeah, yeah. Kind of." John said quickly. He turned away from the box; it was too inconceivable to even look at without making his mind spin. Feeling better now he'd turned away, he tried again to focus on the conversation with his wife and he said, "I'm sure I'll be back soon."

"No, you won't." Mary said, knowingly. John could sense her smirk.

John nodded, "Okay, no I won't. But I'll _will_ be back." He paused then added, "Call if you, you know, feel anything. Anything at all. It can be _absolutely _anything. Even if it's nothing, call me and I'll be..."

"John." Mary sing-songed in her sweetest voice, "You're being paranoid. I can get myself to hospital – Sherlock even showed me the quickest routes."

John frowned, shifting his shoulders, "Not quite sure how to feel about that…"

"Stop worrying." Mary repeated, more firmly this time, "I'll see you later."

John smiled, "Bye." He said quickly and hung up.

At that moment, the Doctor stepped out of the TARDIS, closing the doors behind him. He took a moment to observe Sherlock's flat which they had all tumbled into – John, for the life of him, wasn't sure why he said Baker Street; force of habit, perhaps? The Doctor's eyes were wide and childish as he took in the fire place, the brown dusty furniture, the papers Sherlock had hung on the wall. He smiled brightly at the four men in the room. "See." The Doctor said, lounging against his blue box, "I told you we could travel anywhere."

Dean looked him up and down, still a little breathless from the flight, "Well, if you're so smart…" – at this Sherlock's head jerked up and his eyes narrowed at the Doctor, pouting a little – "…then tell us: What the hell were those statue things?"

"The Weeping Angels." The Doctor replied, "They used to be called the Lonely Assassins."

"Oh,_ delightful_." John sighed, slumping down into his chair and rubbing his eyes. Too much was happening all at once. That morning he'd been a married doctor to an amazing wife and worked all day at the Health Centre and solved crimes with his sociopath best friend as a hobby to help him pay the rent. And now, he'd seen moving statues, boxes that could travel anywhere and, oh, did he mention that it was _bigger on the inside? _He'd pinched himself so many times his arms were red!

The Doctor looked at Sam and Dean, "And what about you?" he asked curiously, "You're not from around here. How did you get involved with this?"

The two brothers exchanged looks. Dean's eyes were narrowed: _Lie!_ Yet, Sam looked hesitant: _No!_ He gave Dean a look which said: _We need all the help we can get. Stop being a jerk – _to which Dean rolled his eyes. The Doctor watched them admirably. Humans never failed to fascinate him. After a moment, Sam explained, "We came here looking for a friend. A hunter."

"Hunter?"

"Yeah." Sam said, "It's like our job…"

"Apart from you don't get paid." Sherlock threw in, and he gave a smug smile at Dean and Sam's cautious looks, telling him he was correct. "Knew it."

Dean scowled at him again – he was going to end up getting wrinkles if he hung around Sherlock any more, Sam thought – and he retorted, "Yeah. Good for you, Beanstalk."

The Doctor's forehead crinkled as he raised his eyebrows at the feud between the two men. John gave him a look that said _'Get used to it'_ and Sam's slightly peeved look confirmed to him that this had been going on for a while and everyone was already fed up. He decided to draw attention away from it and back to the original subject, so he asked the brothers, "What do you hunt?"

There was a pause, in which the brothers shared another conversation through looks alone as though they shared some kind of telepathic link – which they didn't or the Doctor would defiantly know about it. Eventually, Dean said, "Monsters."

That's when John laughed like a maniac.

"Okay, okay…" he paused, took a breath, but couldn't hide his smirk, "Statues that move. A box bigger on the inside than it is on the outside. A quote-alien-unquote. And now monster hunters?" he laughed again, lowering his head and shaking it.

Dean scowled at being ridiculed. It took him a moment to realise that John wasn't laughing because he thought it was funny; he was laughing because it was completely ridiculous, and he just couldn't accept it as truth. Everything that had happened today was impossible by his standards, and just plain weird by Dean's standards. "Well, believe it." Dean said, "We even have an angel friend of our own."

John rested his head against his fingers and peered at him, dubious, "A statue?"

"Nope." Dean gave him a snide look. _Oh, his reaction is going to be epic…_ "An Angel of the _Lord_, and we can prove it."

The Doctor froze. Suddenly, he regretted his decision earlier and now he wanted to leave as fast as he could. He wondered if he sneaked back onto his TARDIS, and put the engines on silent, would anyone notice that he'd gone. It wasn't the first time he'd met the Heavenly Host, and he and they weren't on the best of terms. A confrontation with another angel was something he wasn't ready for. He'd rather have the Weeping Angels.

Sherlock scoffed. He didn't care much for angels, religion, or anything of that genre. He wasn't open to those idiotic things. They were just fantasies. However, he didn't voice his opinion for once, because after seeing a box bigger on the inside than it was on the outside and being chased through a house by statues, he wasn't sure he could trust himself to speak.

Dean then closed his eyes and prayed, "Dear Castiel, who better have a good excuse for leaving this morning, get over here now. We have an angel problem." He opened his eyes again and found John staring at him with two raised eyebrows, and Sherlock just looked amused. On the other hand, the Doctor looked even more uncomfortable than before.

They heard rustling feathers. Castiel appeared in front of the fireplace.

Sam and Dean could barely contain their laughter at John and Sherlock's reactions. John's mouth had dropped wide open and he was gawking at Castiel. After a pause, when no sound came out of his mouth, he closed it again and just continued to stare. Sherlock stood up straight, his greenish-brown eyes flashing, and glared at Castiel as if his very presence in the room was an insult. On the other hand, the Doctor felt his stomach churn. He pressed his back against his TARDIS and looked over at the wall in an attempt to calm his nerves. Confused, Castiel looked at John and the Sherlock, until his eyes rested on the Doctor. For the briefest of moments, his eyes filled with sheer panic, but it was displaced when Dean addressed him.

"Hey, Cas." Dean said, "It's good to see you."

Castiel looked a little confused. He glanced at the Doctor again, and then the others in the room, his eyes moving rapidly, before he looked at Dean. "Dean. Who are these people?"

"Um…Sherlock, John and the Doctor." Dean waved a hand at each them in turn.

Castiel nodded to them in his way of greeting, making a great effort not to look at the Doctor. No one did anything in response. The Doctor seemed to find the swirling dust in sunbeams very fascinating at that moment. Sherlock Holmes looked enraged at Castiel: _That's wrong. He shouldn't be here. _All the while, John continued to open and close his mouth like a fish until he finally stuttered out, "H-how did he do that?" with a small smile; part of him was hoping this was all a joke.

Sam gave him a small shrug because he didn't quite understand it himself and probably never would. He said, "He's an angel."

John stared at him, a little peeved, "No. Seriously."

"Seriously."

John turned to Castiel, who was looking a little lost in this situation. "You're an angel?" John asked sceptically. "So, what, you have wings and you can heal people?"

Dean gestured to his fractured jaw and bruise and grinned at Castiel, "If you don't mind, Cas."

Castiel pressed two fingers to Dean's forehead and the bruise vanished from sight. His jaw was aligned perfectly again, and his skin had referred back to an even tone of light brown rather than the blotchy pink and purple it had been before. John gaped, as Dean moved his jaw around and grinned at Castiel in thanks. The sharp stings of pain had gone and now he could talk without cringing.

"I need to think." Sherlock stood abruptly and stalked out through the kitchen and slamming the door on his way. Loudly.

After that the room fell into a pregnant silence.

A fly was buzzing around the window. Every now and again it would smack its head against the glass, and even that tiny sound seemed so loud that it filled the room. No one made an effort to do anything to break the silence; everyone was struggling to find _the words_ to break it. Castiel was looking at the carpet. The Doctor was looking at the wall. John was staring at his feet; every now and again he'd count his toes because he'd heard that you have the wrong number of toes and fingers in a dream. Dean shifted uncomfortably, casting glances at his brother. This would usually be the time when they'd come up with a plan to ditch this place and kill the monster but, as Sam's helpless shrug indicated, they had nothing.

The clock ticked loudly and ten minutes later, at nine o'clock, it began to chime. John jumped at the sound, and gave a heavy sigh. After a pause, he got up and went into the kitchen. "Would, er, anyone like anything? Tea? Coffee? …Water?"

Sam smiled in sympathy. He remembered when Dean told him about their dad's _real_ job. He'd watched TV, read twelve books, and even did some chores – everything he would usually do, or at least plan to. Then, at the end of the day when Dean tucked him into bed, it all sank in and he realised that he could read a thousand books, he could watch TV for days on end, and do as many chores as he could possibly do without wearing himself out – and it still wouldn't make a difference. His world had completely changed, but it didn't stop him from grasping at those normal straws long into his future; trying to focus on his education, get a girlfriend, go to college; it was never going to work out. The only difference between then and now is that the change wasn't so dramatic for him, but for John it was. Sam decided to help him along. "Sure." He said, walking into the kitchen, "I'll have black coffee, thanks."

The Doctor said, looking to John, "I'll have some coffee. Um…milk, no sugar."

"Do you have any beer?" Dean called, feeling that this was the perfect situation to have some alcohol.

"Only the stuff Sherlock has experimented on which, by the way, I'm not even sure is beer any more." John replied as he worked in the kitchen, feeling a little more comfortable that something ordinary was happening. He placed two cups of black coffee on a tray and gave it to Sam, "The one on the right is Sherlock's."

Meanwhile Dean, who had concluded that he simply couldn't stay in the room for much longer without the help of something to dull his senses, got up headed towards the door, saying, "I'm going to check on our stuff."

At this, Castiel's head perked up. He spared a glance at the Doctor, and then stood. "I'll go with you." He said to Dean and the two of them continued out without another word.

The Doctor watched them leave.

Dean stomped up the stairs fuming. He should have known that typical Winchester luck – or lack of it – would come and bite him sooner rather than later. You see, it would be an unfortunate coincidence to get a flat on the same street as the most annoying dickbag on the face of the planet. It would be even more unfortunate to get a flat _next door_ to the most annoying dickbag on the face of the planet. But no – he had to get a flat _in the same bloody building _as the most annoying dickbag on the face of the planet! That wasn't unfortunate. That was pitiful.

The universe had a cruel sense of humour.

"The landlady had pie." Dean grumbled, "I should have known there was a catch." He turned to go into his and his brother's new flat when he noticed that Castiel wasn't following. At first he was worried that Castiel had disappeared again and was just using the same excuse as him to get out an awkward situation without causing further heart attacks. But this was not the case: Castiel was stood at the bottom of the stairs, looking down at his feet with furrowed eyebrows. He looked worried, and this made Dean hesitate. Something that could worry an Angel of the Lord was never good news. "You okay, Cas?"

Castiel seemed to snap out of his trance at Dean's voice. "I'm fine." He replied quickly, and Dean raised his head to regard the angel suspiciously.

The look Castiel had: the one where he was too happy, to the point where it was simply unreal and sad than anything else. Castiel wasn't good at faking emotions since he had no understanding of real ones. Dean thought back to that morning when he and Sam first took the case. He remembered that Castiel was also acting strangely then, but when he thought about it, he realised that Castiel had been acting strange _after_ they mentioned going to England. It was something about being here, of all places, which made Castiel extremely uncomfortable.

"Are you sure?"

Castiel nodded, smiling, "Yes."

"Really." Dean said sceptically, folding his arms across his chest, "Because you seemed a little freaked out about coming to England this morning. Why was that? You hate migrating?"

"Dean!" Castiel snapped, "I said I was fine!"

Dean scowled, voice raising, "Well, clearly, you're _not!"_

"Is everything all right?"

Castiel suddenly went rigid. The Doctor had appeared at the bottom of the steps, wondering what all the yelling was about, and was now looking between them curiously.

"Yeah, yeah…" Dean muttered, slightly distracted. He was looking between the Doctor and Castiel, beginning to draw attention to something he had not noticed before. The Doctor only looked at Dean for a short moment before he looked at the back of Castiel's head, remorse shinning in his eyes like un-fallen tears. Castiel refused to look in the Doctor's general direction, but when the Doctor left, he turned and his gaze lingered on where the alien had been stood. Dean watched the whole exchange suspiciously.

"Wait." He said, staring at Castiel with widening eyes as realization hit him, "Have you met him before?"

"I don't want to talk about it, Dean." Castiel said, hoping to end the conversation at that. He hurriedly moved past Dean and continued up the stairs. Dean hastily followed him. He refused to let it go that easily.

"Is that why you didn't want to come here?" Dean questioned, "Does this Doctor-guy hang around here a lot?"

Castiel hesitated, but eventually said, in a quiet voice, "He is particular fond of the UK."

_So that was it, _Dean thought; _all this time, Castiel had been avoiding the Doctor, but why?_ Suddenly, Dean bit his lip as he felt a cold chill run down his spine; of course there was something wrong with that monster! What did he expect? Dean looked over at Castiel, "I guess we can't trust him."

Castiel's head snapped up and he stared at Dean with horror, "No! I trust the Doctor." He protested, and Dean was taken back by the forcefulness of the declaration, as well as surprised by what he was saying. "I trust him with this planet and all others. And so should you."

But that didn't make any sense. The two of them looked like they wanted to move to another planet each just to stay away from each other. "Then, why are you two so tense around each other?" Dean questioned, "You look like the fiancé who just bumped into the ex-husband - wait. You're not the fiancé and the ex-husband are you?"

"No, Dean." Castiel sighed, closing his eyes for a moment. He looked so defeated, Dean thought, and he was reminded immediately of an event that took place only a few weeks ago. The angel had joined them for one of their strangest cases yet, but Castiel had been acting a little strange. In fact, he had been acting just as he was at this moment. When Dean had asked him about it last time he'd gotten the answer he didn't expect nor wanted to hear from any of his closest friends and family: _"I'm afraid I'll kill myself."_

What that what Castiel was feeling now? It made Dean sick to the stomach to think that the Doctor had re-awakened such intense feelings of guilt, pain, and loss, especially since Castiel was trying his hardest to work away the feelings he already had, and it was even more difficult for the angel, since he barely understood them to begin with.

"I trust the Doctor." Castiel repeated, giving a small shake of his head, "That doesn't mean he trusts me."

* * *

**A.N: **Stay tuned for Part 2 to this chapter! Thanks for reading everyone.

**Chapter Notes: **Google Maps strikes again! I used it to see the TARDIS interior from all angles, and help me describe it a little better. I wanted to include as much detail as possible, and Google Maps helped because it allowed me to zoom in on different parts. (I did change a little bit: in this version of the TARDIS, the Doctor's phone is on the outside, but let's just pretend he put it back on the inside for this. Hehe.) Coffee preferences: I know John never took sugar in his tea, but he seemed to like it milky while Sherlock and the Winchester brothers seemed to like their black coffee, though Sherlock has two sugars with his, and since it was never confirmed how the Eleventh Doctor likes his coffee, his coffee is actually how the Ninth Doctor had his.

There you go. When these people turn up at your door, _get their coffee right! _:)


	5. A Synergy Of Sorts PART 2

**Disclaimer: **My story, not my characters.

**A.N: **Hey guys I'm back. This chapter is a little short, but my next one will be much longer. Enjoy!

* * *

**Five**

A Synergy Of Sorts – PART 2

"I need to think."

Sherlock's mind was reeling. The gears in his head stuttering and coughing: How can a man appear from nowhere? How can he heal with a single touch? _Impossible, _but Sherlock paused, because he knew that nothing was impossible_._ Yet things like this didn't just happen without a logical explanation. Perhaps this was a very well cohered trick, perhaps to distract him from Moriarty; which only seemed logical if the man in question was behind this. It was an eccentric move on his part, but it was thrilling and had captured Sherlock's attention almost as quickly as the first time Moriarty invited him out to play. This was something Moriarty would do. _But __I'm getting ahead of myself._ Maybe this had nothing to do with Moriarty at all. Maybe, despite all his beliefs, this was just as it was – real.

Still, he couldn't figure this out if he couldn't think. It was difficult with the others rambling on about whatever they were talking about – boring things, probably, like the British President. Sherlock went to his bedroom and slammed the door shut behind him. He needed solitude if he was to use his Mind Palace to find answers to all the strange happenings of that day. Slumping down onto his bed, he stilled himself, waiting until the mattress stop moving under his weight. When all movement stopped, and he was as rigid as ice, he closed his eyes, allowing everything around him to become embedded in darkness.

After a moment, a bead of light appeared in the darkness. It began to grow in size, slowly morphing from a small bead into a large square of light, big enough for a man to fit through. Sherlock approached it confidently, and reached out his hands – in his room, he had his eyes screwed shut and was reaching out towards nothing – and he pushed against the light. The light folded inwards, working as two double doors and Sherlock stepped inside his Mind Palace.

His Mind Palace was made up of individual places he'd been to in his life: There was a staircase from an old house where he and John had shared their first case, which appeared whenever he had use of it. There was his brother's office, where a figment of his brother resided to belittle him whenever he couldn't find answers. There was an old dungeon he visited on a school trip which held his darkest secrets. All of the places were combined into one inside his head, like patchwork, and each one held all the information he'd stored over the years, visualised in some shape or form.

At the moment, Sherlock was inside a large cathedral. He used to come here with his parents and brother Mycroft on Sundays for the church service. As he walked down the aisle of the cathedral, he noticed an elderly man at the altar. He was preparing the wine for the next service; humming hymns absently as he added water to the wine and separated it into the large goblets. Sherlock approached him slowly. When he reached him, the priest was separating small slices of wafer, as a supplement for bread. He didn't look up, but when he spoke, he was addressing Sherlock, "I remember the last time you came here. You were just a little boy." The priest, of course, was referring to the real cathedral, not his Mind Palace since Sherlock had come here many times on quiet nights to sit inside the orange light and glare accusingly at the tapestry and just _wonder_. The elderly man looked up at him and gave him a sad smile, "The day you lost faith."

Sherlock heard a sob, and turned his head to the left to see a little boy crouched at the altar. The boy had small clammy hands and chubby fingers clasped together. His face was soaked with tears. His curly locks were sweaty and ragged from exhaustion and constant crying. "Please." He whispered, over and over again, "Bring him back. Please, please. Bring him back."

The boy was Sherlock.

He remembered that day as if it happened yesterday. It was the day something snapped inside him; a thin wavering elastic band of childlike trust. A child's trust is given so easily, and yet it is the most fragile thing ever. As a child, Sherlock couldn't trust many people. His brother Mycroft was, well…he was Mycroft, his worst enemy. His parents weren't the best of people to talk too. Other children were just stupid, annoying, whining things. There was no one Sherlock could turn to, who could lend an ear, except Redbeard.

Redbeard was an Irish Setter, a dog his family rescued after it was involved with an accident. Mycroft felt nothing for the pup, and his parents felt charitable but that was all. On the other hand, Sherlock had grown extremely attached to Redbeard. Someone who listened. Someone who knew when he was upset. Someone who knew exactly how to cheer him up. The day Sherlock lost faith was the day Redbeard had been put down. Sherlock had lost his only friend and companion that day, and he was certain he couldn't survive without Redbeard. He'd prayed. He'd prayed harder than he had ever before, but nothing happened, and he was left alone.

He came to the conclusion that God, wishes, faith, dreams coming true - everything a child should believe in - were nothing but ludicrous fantasies.

But now things were different. It was like everything he'd ever believed had been forced into a tiny vase, and now someone had that vase in their fist and was squeezing. Cracks were appearing in it's delicate shell. As these thoughts went through his head, the walls of the cathedral began to splinter and crumble. The priest vanished in a puff of urgency, as a large crack appeared in the floor. It spiked towards Sherlock, who leapt back. He glanced round. The whole room was covered in cracks, about to break. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to picture an escape, but he was panicking too much. Sherlock heard shattering glass and grunted, raising his arms to protect himself. The cathedral melted away. His eyes were open, blinking away the images of his Mind Palace still dancing around his eyes.

He noticed someone was knocking at the door. Who would disturb him? Not John; he had enough intelligence for that. Sherlock didn't bother opening the door, hoping that whoever it was would go away so he could re-piece his Mind Palace together and finally focus on the problem at hand. But whoever it was didn't leave. Instead, the door opened and in stepped…not John. It was one of those annoying American brothers, holding a tray of what smelt like coffee. Sherlock frowned; _what was his name?_

"...Simon?"

The other man smiled, "Sam." He corrected. He seemed to take that as an invitation, since he walked right in, closing the door quietly behind him. Sherlock watched him like a hawk as he placed the tray on the beside table and took one of the cups. There was a period of silence. Sherlock narrowed his eyes. _He's given me the coffee, why isn't he leaving yet? _Sam took a deep gulp of his coffee, letting it warm him up inside. He knew the situation was becoming awkward and he'd have to break the silence soon. After a pause, he said, "Look, I know what you're going through."

"I doubt it." Sherlock muttered. He waved an arm as if to dismiss him. "I can tell. You experience these anomalies every day, do you not?"

Sam couldn't argue with that. It was true that he'd seen what most would deem as impossible regularly, however today's events were new and uncomfortable for him also. He gave a small shrug and said, "It's been a rough day for me to."

"Yes, yes..." Sherlock drawled, "I could have told you that. Now _get out_."

Sam scowled. He didn't like this man's attitude at all, but in a way he reminded him of Dean whenever he was annoyed or upset. Suddenly, it was easy to see why the two of them had clashed so harshly. Sam found himself wanting to help, like he would want to help Dean. But what could he say that the detective didn't already know? He chewed his lip in thought. He didn't want Sherlock to retreat into his shell. If he could help Sherlock, perhaps he could help Dean also – he'd be able to find out what was bothering him recently, and he might even be able to fix it. That's what Sam wanted the most. Not to mention, he'd been a big fan of detective stories as a kid and he was determined to reach the man who was, in more ways than one, his childhood hero.

"You like logic, right?" Sam said at last, "Well, monsters have logic behind them too. Dean and I have to figure out the monster and how to defeat it."

Sherlock seemed to think about this for a moment. It had merit, to say the least, but Sherlock couldn't live by 'if's and 'maybe's. He needed solid logic, clever mysteries and, most of the time, answers. He asked, "How do you differentiate truth from fiction?"

"Most of the time? We just go with it."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

_Shit. _Sam should have known the second that tumbled out of his mouth that it was the wrong thing to say. He stuttered trying to recover, "Um…we use our…logic to figure out what to do. Like…" _what was the word he used? _ "Deduction!" he cried in triumph, and Sherlock raised his eyebrow at his outburst. Sam cleared his throat, "It's all deduction, really. Narrowing things down to the right monster and the right method of killing it." – Which was true, in a way. There were many times were Sam and Dean had to solve a mystery before they could defeat the monster.

Sherlock peered at him for a long moment. It was a little unnerving, Sam thought, like looking into the eyes of a doll. For a moment, Sam thought he saw Sherlock's pupils shrink like the zoom of a camera, but it was probably just the light. At last, Sherlock looked away and grabbed his laptop – actually it was John's, but Sam assumed it was his – and began typing rapidly. Sam raised his eyebrows, but figured he wouldn't get anywhere else with Sherlock, so he left the detective to his thoughts.

* * *

The clock chimed at midnight. It was a quiet hollow sound echoing through an equally quiet house to mark the arrival of a new day. Castiel raised his head to the sound, blue eyes glancing up to the roof where his wings made large shadows. Suddenly he realised that he'd been sat there for hours. Alone.

By the time he and Dean had returned downstairs from the Winchester's flat to Sherlock's flat, it was well into the night. Things were quiet and uncomfortable, Castiel could sense it. Soon, John chose to go to bed. Dean and Sam went to do the same, though Dean complained _a lot_ about living near a 'douchebag'. Despite this, he had rebuffed the Doctor's offer to spend the night in the TARDIS, probably because of his fear of flying, but Castiel couldn't help but wonder if what he said to Dean had also affected his decision. After Dean and Sam had left, the Doctor hadn't said much to Castiel, which confused him. He didn't know whether to feel relieved or disappointed.

"Will you be all right?" he'd asked him without looking at him.

Castiel had nodded stiffly, not looking at him either, "I don't sleep."

"I know. I remember."

Then the Doctor had gone into his TARDIS, and things had been quiet ever since. Castiel hadn't heard much from Sherlock, but he sensed that the man was still wide awake in his room even now.

When the clock stopped chiming, Castiel turned back to the fire, watching the red flames attack each other as they competed for which would rise the highest. The vibrant orange colour reminded Castiel of a red planet, with two burning suns and mountains capped with snow. And the two boys who ran across the red pastures, cawing up at the sky as though they were birds, and leaping, shoving, at one another until they collapsed in fits of laughter. He was there too. He was just a bright light trying to hide behind silver leaves – of course he was spotted. That's how they met: The boy who would become the Doctor, his best friend who would become his enemy, and the celestial being of light known as Castiel.

* * *

"_Don't lose it, Dean. Don't lose the ring."_

The next morning, Dean woke to a young woman's voice echoing about in his head from the realm of dreams. He shook himself awake, trying to re-engage with reality, but it didn't stop him from checking his jacket pocket for Death's ring. Part of him didn't want it to be there - it would have saved him a lot of trouble if it hadn't magically appeared in the first place. However, he knew that Death would be after him if he lost it, and since he was bound to bump into him soon, demanding for his ring back, he had to look after it. Luckily, it was still there were he'd left it, and after that, Dean got straight to re-packing his duffel bag. There was no way he could stand being here much longer – living above _Sherlock Holmes _of all people – even though he knew this would probably be a dream come true for Sam. Mid-way through packing his clothes, he heard Sam come out of the bathroom and stop to stare at him.

"Dean, what are you doing?" Sam asked after a moment.

"What does it look like?" Dean retorted, "_I'm_ packing. _We're_ leaving. Then _we're_ going to kill those statues."

Sam shook his head in exasperation. Dean was acting like this yesterday morning too - was he going to be in a bad mood every time he got up? In the hope of getting his irrational brother to think, he said, "Dean, we don't even know _how."_

"Then let's ask Mr Peabody."

They found the Doctor downstairs in Sherlock's flat. He was had changed his shirt since yesterday, but he still wore his signature bow-tie that had yearned him the Peabody title. He looked well-groomed and was beaming a large smile at the landlady, Mrs Hudson as they talked and laughed. He had a cup of tea in one hand and he waved the other to emphasise the points he was making. He stopped when he noticed Dean and Sam enter the room. Mrs Hudson smiled brightly. She was a short, kind old lady who wore long-sleeved dresses and a bright, but cheeky smile. Today in particular, she was wearing a lilac dress with a white crochet cardigan. Her fluffy blonde hair was tucked neatly behind her ears. She was holding a white tray with gold edging which had empty cups resting atop of it. "Good morning, dearies. How was the flat?"

"It was good, Mrs Hudson." Sam replied, with a polite smile. It was definitely better than all the old, rotting motels they'd stayed in. "Thank you."

"Ooh!" she chimed as though she'd just remembered something vital, "I've got some biscuits downstairs."

Dean brightened up at the thought of food, but born-guilty Sam quickly said, "No. It's all right – "

"Just this once. I'm not your housekeeper."

"Um…"

"Just this once."

Mrs Hudson tittered off downstairs, the contents of the tray rattling as she went, just as the door to John's room creaked open. Fatigued, John dragged himself out of his room, yawning and stretching. His blondish-brown hair was sticking up in uneven clumps, although he was dressed in new clothes; trousers and a pale brown jumper. He blinked twice, leaning a hand against the TARDIS as he rubbed some sleep from his eyes. He turned and blinked at what he was leaning on. Then he jumped and swore sourly, "Oh, god…"

Dean frowned, "What?"

John looked at him like he really regretted seeing him and wanted nothing more than to crawl back into bed. He said, "I woke up and I thought yesterday was just some weird dream." He sighed, "There goes my good morning." He went into the kitchen where Sherlock and Castiel where leaning over the table. Sherlock was talking quickly, pointing to the papers on the table, and Castiel was nodding along.

Castiel gave a small smile, "I understand."

"That's a first." Dean said as he went up to them. He looked curiously at what they were doing.

As if reading his mind - which was always a possibility and one could never be sure - Castiel said, "Sherlock was just explaining the case."

Dean stopped short. He realised that he hadn't actually explained to Castiel what was happening. He'd just expected him to come along anyway, and to _stay, _despite how uncomfortable it made him. That was a dick move on his account. Dean looked at Castiel for a moment, then at the table, desperate to keep the conversation moving. He hated facing the guilt. He asked quickly, "Are those the missing person reports?"

Sherlock nodded with a small grin.

John sighed loudly, "Sherlock please don't tell me you stole from Scotland Yard again… I could have easily have gotten a copy."

"Takes too long."

"Don't you think you've given them enough trouble?" John asked, "You know, after harpooning the pig yesterday?"

"He actually did that?" Dean looked at him with disbelief and then smirked, "Awesome!"

In the main room, the Doctor drained the last of his coffee and came into the kitchen. The men began to gather round the table. Castiel and Sherlock were sat opposite one another while Sam and Dean stood menacingly tall over the table. John leaned over Sherlock's shoulder. The Doctor was going to peer over Castiel's shoulder, but then decided against it and stood behind Sam, on his tip-toes, so he could read the reports. When he did, he felt his chest ache. "So these are all the people the Weeping Angels took…" he sighed, "I should have come here sooner."

Sherlock had his chin resting on his fingertips and maintained this position as he looked up at the Doctor. "You knew about this." he stated as fact, "You were the one who left that message on the wall."

_Love from the Doctor - _why hadn't they noticed that before? Well, in fairness, the monster-statues and the small-but-giant blue box were a little distracting...

The Doctor nodded, "It's a long story, but basically I came here a few years ago, but the Weeping Angels sent me back in time. So I left the message to a friend so she'd figure out what to do. She managed to stop the Weeping Angels, but it wasn't exactly a long-term solution…."

"So that was why the disappearances stopped." Sam said, pointing at the records, "According to the reports, there's an eight month gap between two victims: Katherine Nightingale in June 2007, and March Denton in February 2008. They both disappeared at the house where the Weeping Angels are."

Dean rolled his eyes, "Okay, nerds." he exclaimed, "If you guys are so smart and the Weeping Angels just _love_ the house they're at – then why do half of these people go missing somewhere else? Like this guy, Albert Cunning, last seen at the Celtic Manor Resort?" he smiled, feeling proud of himself for coming up with that, and his his smile grew when no one else responded. But, of course, Sherlock Holmes had to go and rain on his parade. Again.

"That's obvious!" Sherlock cried like Dean just doubted that oxygen is needed to live, "The Weeping Angels are _clearly_ intelligent, since at the house they knew to block our escape, so they move around to avoid detection but return to the house before anyone knows they're gone. They move quickly?"

"Faster than you'll ever believe." the Doctor said.

Dean laughed sarcastically and cried, "Now moving statues are _obvious!_ Weren't you having a fit before?"

Sherlock threw eye-daggers at Dean. "I wasn't having a fit!"

"It look like you were having a fit."

"Guys!" John said in a tired voice, "Knock it off."

"The thing is, the Weeping Angels aren't statues." The Doctor continued, when the noise died down, "They're creatures from another world. They only look like stone when you see them, but the second you turn your back they transform and come after you. If they touch you, you're sent back in time and they feed off the potential time energy of the days you might have lived in the future."

"My head hurts." Dean mumbled. Then he got an idea, "So, hey, couldn't we just blow them up?"

John gave him a sceptical look, "You have explosives on you?"

"Hypothetically."

Everyone looked over at the Doctor except Sherlock, who appeared to have zoned out from the conversation and was staring intently at the records. The Doctor shook his head, "Hypothetically...no. We couldn't. Radiation is dinner to an angel. They feed off all kinds of energy, but time energy is like their version of chocolate."

Dean stared with disbelief. "Then how do we kill them?" _Typical. Only a magic sword or stupid Latin mumbo-jumbo..._

"We don't."

_Okay I misheard that. _Dean looked hard at the Doctor, "What?"

"Oh, I'll do a thing!" The Doctor said cheerily, and Dean blinked. The Doctor paused and frowned, "When I come up with one. Anyway, we'll need to rescue those people. And Jack, of course."

"But how are we supposed to find them?" Sam asked, "Don't get me wrong, I'll all up for rescuing them, but if they've been sent through time how can we find them?"

The Doctor smiled. "When the Angels touch someone, they pull them out of time itself." he explained, "This creates Time Dispersal Energy, which has a very distinct pattern – remember when you were inside the house? What did you feel?"

"A sort of…tingling feeling." Sam said, feeling ridiculous. He could cope with a pin-prickle, but what he felt at Wester Drumlins was anything but that. "Like the chills."

"That wasn't just your nerves…" The Doctor said, "Time Dispersal Energy leaves a scatter trail inside the Time Vortex. I can use the TARDIS to create an energy loop around the trail and ride us along it."

Dean blinked again. He suddenly wished he'd paid more attention in school instead of having flings with girls. "I have no idea what any of that meant, but you're basically saying they left a trail you can follow?"

The Doctor rolled his eyes, but grinned all the same. "Way to take all the fun and the mystery out of it, but yes, I am."

John was staring at him with high eyebrows, but eventually he shook himself, "Time vortex?"

"Think of a train line."

John said, hesitantly, "...Okay."

"But it's nothing like that." The Doctor said. John scowled, his mouth opening in a '_wha...?'_ position. The Doctor pranced around the kitchen table, flapping his hands about, as he spoke. "So, a train line with lots of stops, each one being a different place in time and space. Get it?"

John narrowed his eyes in his confusion, "So, just to clarify, it _is_ like a train line?"

The Doctor stared at him for a moment like he just spoke another language. He shook his head, "No, no! But if it helps – yeah." If the Doctor noticed the deadly looks he was getting from the others, he didn't react at all to say as such. He just continued with his speech of madness, "Anyway, my TARDIS will be able to locate the trails of those who disappeared from the house - that's the reason I went there in the first place, actually. We can rescue Jack. I'm not too sure about the others since the energy fades over time. Still, we'll just have to find out. Come along, gang." He stopped abruptly. His eyes widened like he'd gotten an amazing idea, "Ooh, _gang._ I love a gang!"

"Whoa!" Dean cried suddenly, "Who said we were working together?"

Everything went quiet. In the whirl of excitement, most of them had forgotten to mistrust each other - but not Dean. Now everyone was uncomfortable, staring awkwardly at Dean, since it was his fault for pointing out the weakest link in this plan. They simply didn't trust each other. The air was turning bitter. Sam quickly cleared his throat and said, "Dean, can I talk to you?"

Dean glanced over at Sam, and at his brother's peeved look, the two of them left the kitchen and went over by the windows. "Sam, this whole thing is weird." Dean said quietly, "I mean the alien is bad enough, but Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson – are you _kidding_ me?"

Sam nodded in agreement but at the same time he sighed. This wasn't a good idea. Not in the least. But it was the best idea they had, and Dean and Sam had done more with less many times before. Now he just had to convince Dean. Sam said, "Does it matter? We have a job, right? I think it's best if…"

"What?" Dean cut in. He looked at Sam with disbelief, "Don't tell me after your little heart-to-_stone_ chat with Sherlock yesterday that you're actually on board with all this."

"Of course not!" Sam hissed, barely keeping his voice quiet. He glanced back other at the others. The Doctor was talking to John and Sherlock – well, John, since Sherlock didn't look as though he was paying attention. Castiel was watching them, probably listening in on their conversation. "I don't like this just as much as you, and I don't trust those guys either…"

"Then what were you doing with Obnoxious?"

Sam huffed, pressing his lips tightly together, "I just wanted to see if…you know…" his eyebrows bounced when he realised what he was saying was kind of stupid, "If he's like the one in the books…"

Dean stared at him incredulously, "You're joking right? Tell me you're joking."

Sam sighed, "Look, we need trust them or they won't trust us. If they're dangerous, we need to make sure we're there to stop them." Dean still didn't look convinced. Ever since he'd returned from Purgatory, Dean had been shifty around others. Sam knew he was still readjusting, but sometimes he felt as though Dean wasn't putting in the effort, like life and people no longer mattered to him. Sam pushed on, "I think it's best if we stick with them for now. I mean – our _job_ is rescue Jack and stop whatever took him, and we know nothing about where he is or what those Weeping Angels things can do to us, but _the Doctor does!" _

Dean looked at him for a long moment, annoyed and reluctant, but at last he huffed out a loud sigh, "Fine!"

* * *

**A.N: **Okay, so just talking in this chapter. Sorry that the long wait isn't better rewarded. But next time, our boys are going on a wild goose chase to save Jack and stop the Weeping Angels. But it doesn't end there. With rescuing Jack comes a load of new problems (and a lot of running.) Hope you enjoy it.

**Chapter Notes: **Things are going to be tense for this team for a little bit longer, which I thought was more in-character for these people. After all, Dean and Sam trust very few people and adding 'dickbag' or 'monster' to the equation won't really help that. In Sherlock series 1 episode 1, it was said that John has trust issues and Sherlock doesn't put his faith in people at all. As for the Doctor, he isn't a very trustworthy character to begin with and I doubt that he easily trusts others useless he has that 'spark' with them. Things will get bumpy, but I hope to construct a strong relationship between each of these characters.

Interesting fact here: the original Sherlock Holmes, written by Arthur Conan Doyle, actually DID believe in God so I decided that the Sherlock in my story did once believe in God, but lost faith in him after Redbeard was put down. The Sherlock on the show seems to have abandonment issues, which is why he is so protective of the few friends he has so he wouldn't lose them. Also, before John, he didn't class anyone as a friend because he found it difficult to get close to them, which means he was lonely as a child, and Redbeard was his best companion – a friend who would listen to him and be there for him. In the show, Redbeard seems to play a significant part in Sherlock's character, since he is intimidated by the very mention of the dog, which is evidence for how emotionally attached to Redbeard he really was. When you lose something so dear to you, it can shake your faith and very few recover from that. Sherlock is one of them.

As for the 'Time Dispersal Energy' I got the idea from the Doctor Who series 2 episode 'Fear Her' which showed that whenever someone is moved in time/space, the amount of power it takes leaves a tingling feeling and a metallic smelt, so I figured it would be the same with the Weeping Angels since they do the same thing.

That's all folks. Thanks for reading.


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